Remnants of Restoration
by Queen Lua
Summary: Three years after the Mad King's War, in the midst of Crimea's restoration, Zihark has been imprisoned for murder. Ike arrives to investigate, unwilling to believe Zihark's guilt. But Ike's actions may mean endangering Soren, Elincia, and Crimea itself.
1. Chapter 1

_This story is a slight AU. It's set three years after the events in Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance, but does not follow the Radiant Dawn canon. In particular, Ike remained a lord / general in Elincia's new reign, working alongside Soren to help rebuild Crimea, and Begnion and Daein are currently at war with each other. Any other changes should be detailed in the story itself._

Even Crimea's restoration, grand though it was, had its darker side — and it was housed here, between gray walls and behind iron bars, in this prison and hundreds other like it throughout the nation. Mere brigands and petty thieves, most of them — the sort who took to the prison with ease, slinking in the shadows with a hyena's grin. They'd grown used to looting and casual killing during the turmoil of the great war, and now they were finding those habits too difficult to unlearn — or perhaps too gratifying to relinquish. These cells, however, were not kept exclusively by such ill-born riffraff; in the grand prisons of the capital, remnants of old Crimea were held, arrogant nobles and power-starved dukes who could not abide by the rule of a little-known, frail young princess. They made particularly insufferable inmates — they babbled endlessly about their wealth and rank, hoping their chatter could disguise the ignobility of their present situation, or at least make them seem a bit more impressive than their fellow prisoners. An even smaller portion of the prisoners, then, were those caught somewhere in-between. Honest men who'd found the laws changing too quickly for them to keep up, vigilantes who'd discovered their deeds were no longer deemed acceptable, and wrathful old men unable to set aside their enmity for all those ragged subhumans that seemed a more and more common sight nowadays.

Elincia's rule had restored peace and order, but not without a price. Not without this dark network of barely-restrained savagery, this faint rumbling of discontent beneath the surface.

But Morholt was a small town, a simple town. This little prison of theirs was only a handful of cells, and right now, it held only one prisoner, who was sitting alone at the end of the yawning corridor.

He sat still within his cell. He was a thin man, with the supple, catlike build of a swordsmaster or a thief. His imprisonment these past few days had only made him thinner, and his long, silver-hued hair hung oily and ragged around his face. His head was bowed over his hands; his hands were clasped loosely before him. He might've seemed as though he were praying, unless one got a good look at his eyes — wide-open, staring determinedly at the floor below him, with a curious mixture of grim resolution and glinting defiance.

It felt absurd, to him, being put in this place at all. As absurd as anything Daein ever did, back during the war. He might as well have gone back to Daein, like he'd planned initially; at least there they were _upfront_ about their attitudes. None of this false sincerity, none of the thin smiles just barely disguising disgust, those things that seemed so common in Crimea.

Yet he did not rage at this situation — did not shout or stand or pace or so much as lift one finger. Zihark was resolved to his fate, would not struggle against his fate — even if he would never accept that fate as justice.

* * *

><p>"So, my lord Ike, you'll find that our prison here is truly state-of-the-art," the mayor announced, gesturing grandly as he stepped into the cold cell block. He was overdressed for his surroundings, almost comically so — his robes were vibrant hues of purple and yellow, and his fat little fingers had two dozen golden and silver rings crammed onto them. Ike, on the other hand, was dressed in a garb scarcely above that of a typical yeoman. Traveling boots. A fraying cape. A pair of bucklers and some other light pieces of armor. Yet it was clear where the real power lied, between the pair of them: the mayor was practically groveling, whereas Ike remained cool and regal. "Not that we need to make use of it often — oh, no! We are a peaceful little place, for the most part, which made this recent turn of events all the more upsetting, all the more troubling... But you see, when we have need of it, these locks are absolutely impossible to pick, and the steel for the bars was forged by our own master blacksmith — this is all to your liking, is it not, my lord?"<p>

"Uh-huh," Ike muttered, only half-listening. He found that the mayor could talk for hours and say absolutely nothing, so he'd already become adept at tuning the chaff out. "So where is he, again?"

Looking a bit put out, the mayor replied, "Down this hall. Last cell on the left."

"Thank you, mayor. Now, if you would leave me..." Ike directed the mayor towards the door with his eyes.

At that, the mayor balked. Clearing his throat, he murmured, "Well, ah, you see..." Another pause; the mayor straightened his shirt and adjusted his glasses. "My lord, if you will pardon my asking," he began at last (squirming under Ike's annoyed stare), "would you tell me why this particular case has drawn your special attention? It seems perfectly clear to me that he is guilty, an open-and-close case, if you will."

The mayor spoke clearly enough, but his face was looking rather flushed, and he was wringing his hands obsessively. Ike nearly laughed. A pathetic man man, fearing for his job and his posturing but little else.

Still, the question was a reasonable one, if somewhat intrusive. "This man," Ike answered, "was one of my most trusted soldiers in the Mad King's War. Understandably I'd want to verify his crimes for myself."

"The Mad King's War?" The mayor flushed even further. "Truly? I had no idea he'd ever served, my lord."

"Really." Ike's tone was neutral, but inwardly, he was surprised — someone as nosy and intrusive as this mayor surely would've heard such an important detail?

Nonetheless, Ike once more motioned toward the door. "Now, mayor, if you will."

"Oh. Oh, right. Right away, sir."

Ike watched the mayor scurry away on his fat little legs, listened as the iron door slammed shut with a tremendous _clang_. But once the door shut, Ike didn't hear any more footsteps. _Goddess help me_, Ike thought. _I used to destroy generals, and now I'm tasked with discouraging eavesdroppers?_

Rolling his eyes, Ike took one great stride toward the door and gave it a good, solid kick. On the other side, he could hear the mayor's shrill yelp and the _whump_ of his body smacking against the floor. "Good _day_, mayor," Ike called through the iron with a decisively savage tone. After a few seconds, he could hear the mayor's much-quickened footsteps hurrying away.

Ike sighed heavily, allowing himself to lean back against the door. He bowed his head and closed his eyes as he leaned back. It was the first chance he'd had for a moment's peace since arriving in town, and he'd been desperate for it — haggling with noblefolk and self-important beings like this particular town's mayor drained Ike in a way that no duel or battle ever could.

_"I can't stand nobility,"_ Ike had told Elincia at the conclusion of the Mad King's War. He'd been frank, stating his intentions to leave her side and return to the Greil Mercenaries. He would renounce his lordship; the title was more a burden than anything else.

Elincia didn't like to hear that, not one bit — though of course she never _said_ this outright. She bit her lip, pouting in a vague, pleading way. _"Alright, my lord,"_ she murmured. _"I could use a lord like you in my court to help me through the beginning of my reign. But you owe your group your full attention, now. Fare well."_

Oh, inwardly, Ike had protested. He was simply a lucky and exceptionally reckless mercenary; how could he help her in the court? And he did owe the Greil Mercenaries his full attention, didn't he? He didn't want to do ill for his father's name by mismanaging the company.

But he looked at Elincia's face then — so strained, always at the breaking point, always struggling to hold herself together for Crimea's sake — and what argument of his could possibly hold up against a face like that?

So he'd left the company to Titania, and he sloughed his way through three years of service to Crimea, operating as the architect of her reconstruction, an ambassador for her people, a negotiator for her peace, serving only rarely as general of war. It was a terrible grind, at first — but it turned out that, though Ike detested most of his duties, his honest and upfront nature made others feel at ease, and tales of his heroism clung to him like some sort of halo, aiding him and Crimea in keeping the peace. And peace was an increasingly impressive accomplishment nowadays, what with Begnion and Daein warring sleeplessly against each other.

But it was a smaller matter that brought Ike to this place — a personal matter.

Ike was glad to meet him again. If only it had been under better circumstances...

"Zihark," Ike said softly, turning to face the prisoner. The general fidgeted a bit in place — he felt a bit exposed, just standing in the middle of an empty hall like this — but he wore a small, encouraging grin. All earnestness, as always.

Ike let the greeting hang in the air, but Zihark made no motion to respond. He remained sitting — head bowed, hair hanging in his eyes, both feet planted squarely on the ground. In front of his lap, his clasped hands seemed to tighten a bit, but otherwise he was still.

"Zihark," Ike said again. "I came because I wanted to learn the truth. What happened that brought you here?"

Zihark lifted his head an inch, just enough to stare narrowly at Ike. A pained grin was on his face. "Well, that should be perfectly obvious. I'm sure the mayor's talked your ear off about it by now. I deny nothing that he says."

Ike gritted his teeth. Zihark's nonchalant tone irked him, even more than outright aggression and derision could have. "Zihark, you are not the kind of person to stab a man in cold blood and leave him —"

"Clearly I am," Zihark interrupted. He was sitting straight up now, his posture upright and impeccable — as had always been the case, back when he'd served with the Greil Mercenaries. "All the evidence is there, general."

Ike scowled. "Then surely there had to be some _reason_."

At that, Zihark's face tightened. Ike felt it, then — the chink in his armor, the weak stroke in his sword-form. Back during the Mad King's War, he'd learned to detect such weaknesses on the battlefield, as if by a sixth sense, and exploit them; now, three years of cautious diplomacy and negotiation had honed his ability to detect this other kind of weakness.

"Zihark," Ike continued, his tone almost pleading, "tell me, please. They want to see you hanged for this, and unless I know the full story, there's not much I can do to help you."

"Let them hang me, then!" Zihark shouted, a shrill snarl wracking his previously-steady tone. For an instant, his expression was positively feral, matching the wrinkled face of a defiant caged tiger. Then, moments later, his rage faded, and he was almost back to his prim, well-postured, well-mannered self — almost. "There is no need for your presence here, general," Zihark continued in a low, level tone. "It's been three years since I fought under you. I am a civilian now. I killed Woodward. At least grant me the simple dignity of allowing me to die without being forced to explain my sins to you."

"You're not thinking straight, Zihark," Ike said, his brow furrowed thickly, regarding his old companion with a scrutinizing gaze. "This isn't you."

"I'm not speaking to you any longer, general," the swordsman announced cooly. His head was bowed again, hands clasped between his legs, just as he'd been sitting when Ike had entered the prison. It made it seem as if no one had ever visited at all.

Ike stood there for a moment. Then, gritting his teeth, he drew his cloak closer to him and turned towards the exit. Ike was expecting to have to fight the mayor over this. He'd been expecting to have to persuade the townsfolk. Never had he imagined he'd have to fight Zihark himself to save Zihark's life. Ike's furious strides betrayed his frustration, but before he swung the door shut behind him, he turned back toward the corridor. "Don't think I am so faithless," he called before stepping out, "as to give up on you this easily. This isn't the last you'll see of me."

* * *

><p>Late afternoon in Morholt meant that the tavern was just beginning to waken from its morning slumber. Here and there, worksmen and craftsmen had snuck away from their duties an hour or so earlier than usual, coming to throw back a pint or two before the rest of the town began to arrive in earnest. It was a good time to be at the tavern — the sun was still pouring through the windows, allowing some decent light to fill the dusty and dark corners, the barkeep was still in a cheerful mood, and the atmosphere was more convivial and cheery rather than bawdy and brash. And, of course, it was the best time of day to overhear the details of Morholt's recent happenings.<p>

"Didja hear," one of the rowdier taverngoers half-shouted, clasping a glass of ale with thick hands worthy of a berserker, "they're sayin' General Ike himself's comin' to town, come to have a look at our lil' town's latest criminal."

Several men sitting nearby gave low gasps of awe and excitement at the announcement, but they were interrupted by a cool, cutting voice nearby: "Nonsense." They turned to see a lone man (barely a man, at that — his frail figure and diminutive posture betrayed him as a traveling, scholarly sort rather than one of the hardy men of the town) sitting at a table nearby, nursing a thin little glass of ale and peering at the group with strange, crimson-tinted eyes. Seeming a bit abashed at the sudden attention, the loner hastily added, "Surely Crimea's great hero would travel nowhere without a royal entourage, would he? I've seen nothing of the sort."

"Oh," the first taverngoer wondered aloud, seeming a touch crestfallen. "Well, maybe you have a point there, fella."

"But Lord Ike's always been rather understated, y'know," another man added brightly. "He's a right regular fella, never cared much for court finery or that nonsense. Maybe he simply needn't travel with a legion of chariots and all that."

"Well, who's this prisoner who's supposed to be drawing Lord Ike's attention, then?" the loner asked — fiddling with his thick black hair as he did so, taking care to let it drape across his forehead.

The men at the bar all exchanged cautious glances, eying the loner with vague suspicion. Inwardly, the loner cursed himself. _Wish Ike wouldn't send me out trying to gather intelligence this way_, he thought. _I've got no talent for it, and my proper place is formulating tactics, anyway. _He'd inquired too hastily, trod too harshly on a rather tender spot for these townsfolk, and now they were worrying over saying too much.

The mission was salvaged, however, by one scrappy-looking man sitting at the far corner of the bar, who already had several empty mugs arrayed before him. "Feckin' bastard, that's who he is!" the little man roared, slamming his fist against the counter. "Killed my best mate. I dun care how weepy that Zihark fella was gettin', that bloody laguz-lover went a step too far — went too far long ago, an' if you ask me —"

"Tork, mate," one of the taverngoers murmured, rising on unsteady feet to stand beside the scrap-of-a-man. "Ease up a bit."

The loner didn't have to look to know that several men were staring at him — harsh, accusatory stares. He — Soren — knew better than anyone when he wasn't wanted. Reaching into his pocket, he felt for a generous helping of gold pieces, laid them on the table, and strode out the door without so much as a sideways glance at the other men. He'd heard enough, anyway — there was a familiar glint in Soren's eyes, the gleam that came with some sort of previously-unnoticed tactical boon, or a favorable turn of fate on the battlefield. Perhaps Ike had been right to send him here, after all.

"Damn it, Tork," the barkeep shouted as the door swung shut behind the mage, "that's your last glass! I can't have you chasin' customers off like this!"

* * *

><p>Zihark's taste in books was simply <em>awful<em>.

Soren had been plowing through the mess of overturned bookshelves in Zihark's home for the better part of an hour — the place had been a wreck when he'd arrived, with books and silverware and sword powder and trinkets strewn all over the place. Soren hadn't been able to tell if Zihark had simply gotten lazy in taking care of things, or there'd been some kind of scuffle, or if someone else had come and looted the place before him. Wouldn't have been hard; the whole house had been unlocked.

Not that it was much of a house, anyway. More like a shack, in terms of size: there were maybe three rooms in the whole place, and all of them were cramped.

Odd of Zihark to have a house at all, really. And odd of Zihark to have so many possessions. He'd been a vagabond, light-traveling mercenary before — had he been trying to settle down here, at last? Then why here? And why alone? And why kill Wormwood, if this was where he'd been meaning to live?

Soren sighed, overturning more rubbish in the pile in front of him. He had _mainly_ meant to be ruffling about for some kind of evidence to help Zihark's case, but it was impossible for him to resist cracking open a tome, or two, or seven, while he searched about. Even though most of the books were rather — _urgh_. Zihark seemed to favor mostly laguz writers, and despite what Ike or anyone else said, it was hard to deny that Gallian authorship was still a far cry behind that of the beorc countries. Begnion's scholars knew the names of the likes of Lisolo and Martin Sontus for a reason. Who would ever want to read drivel by someone named — Soren turned to the title page of one of the books before him — Raltelekai? How was that even _pronounced_? It sounded more like a series of snarls than scholar's name.

Soren tossed the tome aside and went back to the mess before him. At least Zihark owned Berkus's famous book on the art of war, and Soren certainly couldn't fault him for that — he could practically recite the thing by heart, at this point, he'd used it to guide so many of his stratagems during the Mad King's War. A bit weighty and erudite for an ordinary foot soldier to keep around, though — evidently Zihark had a keener intellect than just any run-of-the-mill mercenary.

He picked up another book, moved to toss it aside, but then paused, peering at it more closely. The author's name was a laguz one, unfortunately, but the title caught his attention: _The Parentless_.

Delicately, he lifted one hand and ran his fingers down the spine. The thing looked worn and beaten, though the spine itself was uncracked — more the look of a very old book that had been exposed to the elements, rather than a book that had been frequently read. Made sense — Soren was just surprised that some Gallian scholar had actually gone to the effort of writing a book about his kind.

His kind. _The Parentless_.

Shaking himself, he moved his hand again, tracing his fingers across the cover — there was the faint emboss of the title and little brown splotches (faded mud? spilled coffee?), but nothing else. For a moment he simply stared, letting his bangs fall across his face, feeling the weight of the book with one hand. He was clutching it rather too tightly, frowning rather too deeply, while his right hand hovered anxiously over the pages, as if uncertain whether or not to pry the volume open.

After a long silence, Soren brushed his bangs away and opened the book. He leaned against the wall behind him as he did so, burying his nose in the tiny text of the book's introduction in a very stiff, deliberate fashion.

He'd only made it a few pages into the book when he heard Ike calling from outside: "Soren? You around?"

"Inside," Soren called, not moving from where he was sitting. "Door's unlocked."

Cautiously, Ike pried open the door and poked his nose inside. "Did you just... walk on in, then?"

"Ike," Soren said, rolling his eyes, "you can come on in. It's fine. We're agents of the government, not petty thieves. We've just cause to be here. And what'd Zihark say?"

Ike sighed heavily at the question, and at last stepped into the front hall, taking a few steps to follow the sound of Soren's voice. "Nothing. Zihark said nothing. Just some rubbish about — he killed Woodward, and he wanted to die without having to explain any further. That was it."

"Hm." Soren still hadn't looked up from the book. "I guess he's always been a private fellow."

"There's being a private fellow, and then there's rubbish," Ike muttered, his temper simmering just below his words. "I don't get it — he didn't seem like he had a _deathwish_. He just seemed like he didn't want anything else to do with it. Or like he couldn't be bothered with it. Or..." Ike trailed off. He'd just poked his head into the bedroom where Soren was sitting, and caught his first glimpse of the pile of junk strewn all across the floor. "Yeaugh. What a mess."

"Odd, isn't it?" Soren had finally snapped the book shut, and now his gaze flickered idly between Ike and his surroundings. "Zihark's always been the meticulous sort. It's not like him to leave a place in this state. But nothing valuable's gone, so I don't think it was looting. And if there were a struggle, I'd expect... blood, or sword-marks on the walls, or for these books to have been trampled on, or some other giveaway."

Ike frowned, kneeling to get a better look at the mess on the floor. Soren stood up and started pacing, still holding that book tightly at his side while he continued his aloud-train-of-thought. "From the bit I could tell in the tavern, anti-laguz sentiment seems at least somewhat prominent in this town."

Ike grumbled through clenched teeth. "You'd think, three years after the war..."

"Beorc have hated the laguz far longer than three years, Ike," Soren noted testily.

"It's not that I'm all that surprised. Just disappointed." The general was rifling through some of the things on the floor, but in an aimless, tired sort of way. "Do you think the town knew about Zihark's feelings toward the laguz, or something?"

Soren shook his head. "Zihark's no fool. He's never had trouble playing nice with enemies to his cause. When we met him, he was part of that vigilante band, remember? It was a front, for helping laguz — but he blended in fine." Soren ceased pacing for a moment, furrowing his brow in contemplation. "And anyway, they wouldn't provoke him if he just _sympathized_ with the laguz. It had to be something else. So the real question here, is —"

Soren cut off, abruptly, feeling a sudden chill seize his spine, and the book he was holding slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor. He _sensed _something — some other presence, some other party to their conversation...

"Soren?" Ike asked.

Soren made a quick gesture for _silence_ and glanced around the room quickly, desperate for some sight, some sound, anything. That something, it could be anything — a magic-borne illusion, a crouching assassin, a —

There. He could hear it. Barely, but it was there — a low, heavy breath, then the lightest scuffle, a coiling of muscle —

Soren's eyes widened, and he took two rapid steps backward, crying, "_Ike, behind you!_"

Ike's fingers immediately flew to his scabbard as he leapt from a kneel to a fighting stance. A snarl erupted from somewhere in the room, causing the whole house to rattle wildly, but before Ike could manage to turn, before he could even unsheathe his sword, there was a flash of blue fur and he felt something shove him, hard, and he crumpled uselessly against the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to those who've reviewed! I really enjoy the feedback, and I'll be trying to take all criticism / suggestions into account as the story progresses ^_^_

* * *

><p>One harrowing set of jaws glinted half an inch from Ike's face. He struggled to move, but he was pinned fast — how had a tiger laguz had managed to hide in this tiny room, anyway? He strained uselessly with one hand, reaching out toward his sword. It was a few feet to his side, just out of range: the tiger had knocked it out of his hands when he'd first pounced.<p>

Soren didn't even have time to blink. He didn't _need_ it. Without his even thinking it, the words Soren needed jumped to his lips: words in the ancient tongue, a hastily-recalled bit of fire incantation. It was insufficient, a weak spell at best — but he'd left his tomes back at the tavern, and he couldn't render any spells at full power without the text in front of him. He cursed himself for his carelessness even as the warmth leapt into his hands, and he hurled the ball of magefire at Ike's assailant.

The tiger reeled at the fire, yowling as he fell back — Soren was a bit surprised. Had that hastily-done scrap of magic hurt so much? Already, Soren was preparing another spell, a stronger one, expecting to need it. Yet, as the tiger reeled back, Ike saw his opportunity: the general coiled, then sprang forward, shoving his full weight against the beast — the tiger was already off-balance, and with Ike's shove he fell backwards, hard. And even as the tiger fell, his frame seemed to be shrinking — was the tiger already transforming back?

_Feh. What a weakling._

Soren's hands were still warm, his second spell at the ready. Ike didn't miss a beat: with one fluid motion, he ducked low, snatched his sword from the ground, charged forward, and swung his sword at the laguz's throat, pressing it threateningly against the now-human exposed flesh.

Soren gave a grin of grim approval. Three years off the battlefield hadn't dulled Ike's skills _too_ badly, that was certain.

As the laguz finished slipping into human form, Soren stepped closer, noticing how young the laguz looked... _very _young: "You're a kid," Soren whispered, astonished.

"Aren't you?" the laguz snapped back, turning his head towards Soren as much as he was able with Ike's blade pressed at his throat. His eyes were still blazing.

"Watch yourself," Soren answered — not out of indignation, but with the cool, measured authority of a teacher reminding a child that it was rude to stare.

"Soren, please." Ike hadn't moved his sword from the child's throat, but his face was wrinkled in confusion. "Why did you attack us?"

The child turned his glare towards Ike now, though its intensity was fading. He was biting his lower lip, trying to keep his face straight even as it was crumpling with silent agony — Soren's eyes flickered over the boy's side, where his fire spell had struck. It was reddened, puckered, scalded white and red in spots. It hadn't been a strong spell, but even so, burns at such close range would smart like nothing else.

"Tell us. We can get you a healer."

Soren's eyes widened in silent alarm; he exchanged a meaningful glance with Ike. They knew each other so well that they could talk with just their eyes, sometimes:

_Get him a healer? He just attacked us!_

_ We don't know everything yet, Soren. Calm down._

Soren snorted. _Feh._

"Because you're the ones who —" the child clenched his face again. "You're the _bastards_ who —" He unleashed an inarticulate wail at last, though Soren couldn't tell if it was more out of pain or frustration. Then, somehow, he managed to transform again — and Ike, rather than moving to cut him down, faltered, drawing his blade back to himself in a defensive gesture rather than taking the quick jab to end the boy's life.

Well, Soren wouldn't falter. He shouted the casting-word, and a ball of flame struck the half-tiger half-child's hind flank, hard. A shrill snarl echoed through the room, but the now-fully-tiger laguz didn't lash out at Soren or Ike. Instead, he whirled and made a mighty leap at the room's single glass window. With a magnificent crash, he sent a handful of jagged glass shards pelting to the ground. Soren heard the unsteady _whump_ of the tiger landing on the other side — probably landed on his side, he was too injured to hit the ground on all fours — but he had righted himself, and Soren could hear the retreating pawsteps —

Soren swore to himself. He couldn't get a good shot through the shattered window, and the window was too high for him to dive through. He and rushed back into the main hall, out the front door, and towards the side of the house, aiming to angle another spell at the laguz — but he'd already disappeared. Soren saw a smattering of blood in the grass beside the house, and the grass was flattened where the tiger's pawsteps had been. His lips thinned into a hard, angry line, and he strode deliberately forward. Years in the mercenary company had made him a more-than-competent tracker, and damned if he let that runt get away —

"Soren," Ike called. Soren turned to see Ike standing in the doorframe of the house's entrance. "Stop. Let him go. And you shouldn't have done that."

Soren's eyes widened in indignation; he craned his neck just enough to meet Ike's eyes. His voice became very quiet and icy: "Shouldn't have _done_ that, Ike? I'm sorry. Would you prefer I stand aside idly next time some lunatic sub-human tries to kill you?"

Ike frowned. "I don't think he was going to kill me," he said softly.

Soren rankled at that, whirling to face Ike head-on, but Ike quickly amended: "I mean, I don't think he _could've _killed me. He's a kid, Soren."

"That doesn't mean anything," Soren replied, though his protests were halfhearted at this point: he had just caught a good look at Ike. The swordsman was bleeding freely from a series of gashes all across his arms and chest, where the laguz had buried his claws into Ike's flesh. "You're bleeding."

"Ungh." Ike lifted an arm to his eyes, eying the wounds with a sort of dull fascination. "Yeah." Nothing too serious, nothing life-threatening — but they'd need to get it checked out, nonetheless.

Soren's lips pursed. Part of him would've liked to keep harping on Ike — point out that _Rolf_ had been a kid too, and he'd killed, and that next time Ike would be better off slashing first and asking questions later — but he wasn't going to persuade Ike of anything, and maybe Ike was right, anyway. Wouldn't be the first time — much as Soren hated conceding this point.

So, Soren simply sighed, swallowing his irritation for the time being. "Let's find you a healer," he muttered, moving to help support Ike as they headed back towards town.

* * *

><p>Tonight's guard-on-duty was a fat man, reminding Zihark rather of Duke Tanas — all bluster and sneer, but find him on a battlefield and he'd be softer than a sponge.<p>

Zihark was still sitting the same way he'd been sitting when Ike left — head bowed, hands clasped. He was careful not to look at the guard, as much as he could help it — it would only encourage the man. Not that he needed much encouragement...

"I heard there were looters at your house, the other day," the man sneered. "Y'know, even if that Lord Ike manages to get you off the hook, I'd reckon you won't even have a house to come home too. How'd that be, eh?"

A sort of sad smile tugged at the edges of Zihark's lips. Did this man really think his _house_ was of any concern to him? The contents of his home were the least of his worries — not even a worry at all, really. He'd always traveled lightly, lived frugally. Any looters who came by would be disappointed to find naught except some books and a couple swords, and those were replaceable.

He almost felt _bad_ for the man. Surely he'd picked that taunt because he valued his house. Would this guard feel crushed if someone looted his house? Did he value bits of metal and gold and such that highly? Was there nothing higher in this man's life? Pitiful, and pitiable, in its own way.

Suddenly, Zihark's stomach gurgled, despite himself. The guard chuckled. "Hungry yet, Zihark?" he taunted through a mouthful of chicken. The chicken that was _supposed _to be Zihark's dinner.

Zihark pursed his lips into a grim sneer, but said nothing. _How professional._

Zihark hadn't been eating much since coming here — though the reasons varied. Some of the guards, like this pudgy fellow, were simply petty and cruel and enjoyed taunting him by taking his meager meals for themselves, or offering him the moldiest cheese rinds and stalest bread they could manage. Some of the other guards offered him meals freely, but more often then not Zihark simply chose not to eat: he didn't much feel like it, and anyway, why bother? He'd be dead soon anyway.

That's why he thought it was so funny, the guards who _did_ hold his meals away from him. The pangs of hunger in his stomach were unpleasant, but they were endurable — they were nothing, really, in the larger picture. Nothing compared to the reason he'd killed Woodward. Nothing compared to how he felt about being here. Nothing compared to the fact that he'd be dead in three days. Why couldn't they see that, these men? Who gave a damn about the rubbish in his house or the food he ate?

The guard chuckled to himself, supremely self-satisfied, but went quiet once more. Zihark slowly drifted into own reverie again — he'd passed much of the time here in a sort of half-waking, meditative state, staring at the ground and trying hard not to think of anything at all — but he jerked his head up when he heard a loud _thud_ right in front of him a half-hour later.

The man had fallen hard against the floor, and the chicken leg he'd been holding had fallen to the side. For the first time in a very long while, Zihark stood, bringing his face closer to the bars of the cell to get a closer man was still breathing — for now — but he'd fallen out of it so quickly, so suddenly, that Zihark couldn't help but start drawing some slightly wild conclusions.

Was it poison? Surely, no. Or... if it was... who? Who would poison this guard? The man was rather reprehensible and petty, certainly, but surely no one wanted him _dead_? Unless they wanted some kind of vengeance for Zihark's punishment — but no, Ike would never do anything like that.

Zihark glanced out of the side of the cell uneasily. He was the only one here, the only witness — was someone trying to frame him? If so, then _why_? He was already sentenced to die... unless people were nervous that Ike was going to get him off the hook. Maybe Ike could pardon him for one murder — but multiple murders would perhaps be too much of a feat even for Crimea's great hero. That had to be it, he thought. But the man was still breathing. Was this a slow-acting poison? How long before this man became a corpse — minutes, hours? Would he have to go through another sham of a trial, then? Zihark scowled at the prospect, keeping his eyes fixed on the man.

He heard some footsteps in the corridor, just then — light and scarcely audible, but Zihark hadn't survived as long as he had by being caught unaware. "Who's there?" he asked, unable to keep some tension out of his voice.

No answer. Old instinct made his hand fly to his scabbard — a scabbard that wasn't there. Zihark felt himself sweating in anticipation — for some reason, the irony of a man who'd accepted a death sentence jumping into combat mode at the first sign of danger didn't occur to him. Crouched in a defensive stance, he took a few steps backward, squinting hard in the dankness to try and glimpse whoever was approaching.

"If you want out of here," an airy, familiar voice finally called from the darkness, "it's fifty gold for the lock, another two hundred if you want me to cover your retreat."

"_Volke_?"

The assassin strode boldly in front of him, standing between where the guard was snoozing on the floor and Zihark's cell. "In the flesh. What do you say to my offer?"

Zihark simply gawped for a long moment. He hadn't quite known what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. Another face he'd never expected to see again — next thing he knew, Ilyana and Mordecai and Brom would start showing up, too.

Slowly, he shook his head in reply. "No, Volke. I'm not interested."

Volke simply shrugged. "Suit yourself." Zihark felt a small swell of gratitude at that simple answer: Volke was ever an observer, not a meddler. If Zihark didn't want rescuing, Volke would respect that. It put Zihark at ease.

But then, Volke added, very quietly: "You know your dying won't be any help to Raelsha, right?"

Zihark's eyes widened — he was surprised Volke had gotten anyone to say the name, no one had called her by her name the whole time she'd been in the town — but, of course Volke would know. Volke knew everything. Zihark forced himself not to think of the name too long, forced himself to swallow the lump that had just leapt unbidden into his throat: "I know," he answered, his voice barely even a whisper.

Volke gave nod of acknowledgment. Zihark's eyes drifted back down to the guard, feeling slightly sick. The guard hadn't been a _good_ man, but it seemed... unnecessary. Wasteful. "Is he...?" Zihark began.

"Oh, him?" Volke laughed. "Sleeping potion, nothing more. He'll be fine in a few hours."

"Oh." For whatever reason, Zihark felt relieved, and he felt his defensive posture relax. But Volke was still staring at him, and Zihark stared right back. A dozen questions swum in his mind, all half-formed and probably wouldn't be answered even if he asked: _what are you doing here, how did you find me, why did you knock him out, are you planning on killing anyone in town..._ After a long moment, Zihark finally cleared his throat. "Volke," he began, "not to offend, but I think it unlikely you came here just out of concern for my well-being..."

"No offense taken. I'm under contract."

_Of course. _ "Whose?"

Volke smirked. "Of course I can't tell you that."

Zihark sighed. _Of course_.

Volke continued: "I hear Soren and Ike came by?"

"Ike did," Zihark answered flatly, his eyes darkening a bit at the memory. "He wants to contest my sentence, I think."

Volke's smirk returned. "If he wants to do that, Zihark," Volke replied, "he'll likely succeed."

Zihark frowned, but said nothing. _He's right._ Zihark knew it — had known it for a while, though he hadn't thought of it so explicitly. He'd been trying very hard to ignore the possibility. Tried very hard to not consider what would happen if Ike somehow cleared his name.

"Did he mention anything else? Of his goings-on, his whereabouts?"

"No, nothing." Zihark shook his head. "I mean, he said he'd be coming back to talk to me again, so there's that. He's probably around."

"And was Soren with him?" Volke's eyes were curiously intense at that question, glittering in the darkness.

"Not that I saw."

"Hmm." Volke frowned, and his face darkened — already, he seemed to be slipping back into the shadows, though he was still standing right in front of Zihark. "Well, thank you. Fare well."

"Fare well," Zihark echoed — but by the time he blinked, Volke had already disappeared.

What had all _that_ been about...? Zihark thought dimly, still standing in the dark, staring at the knocked-out guard. "Volke?" he called — no reply. _Should've expected as much_.

* * *

><p>Ike and Soren had just spent an anxious hour in the village healer's house — anxious, because from the moment the healer first picked up his stave to the moment he left, Soren wouldn't move his eyes from the man. Ike shot Soren a couple angry glares — <em>you're being rude, Soren<em> and _just calm down a bit_ — but after their little surprise visit from that laguz, Soren felt perfectly justified in being more than a bit jumpy. Plus, Soren couldn't help but feel a bit skeptical of this healer's talents — this was an obscure countryside village, not the sort of place where master mages tended to linger, and though Soren hadn't mastered staves himself, he'd seen Rhys in action often enough to recognize talent when he saw it. Fortunately for the village healer, he was good at his work — very slow, but at least the slowness ensured that he was deliberate in his actions and made no mistakes. By the time they left the house, the sun had been down for some time, but the only sign of the laguz's attack were a few faint scars, and Soren was obliged to compliment the healer on a job well done.

Soren's mood was almost back to normal by the time they arrived at the tavern — not that _normal_ meant particularly _cheery_, but at least it meant he wasn't feeling taut and anxious and irritated with everything.

Of course, something _would_ happen, just while Soren was feeling better.

As they were walking through the common area, by the serving-tables and the bar, Soren spotted a familiar ponytail of long, pink hair — a man sitting at the bar, hunched over a pint of ale, with an empty seat on either side of him.

Familiar. _Irritatingly_ familiar.

Ike saw him too: "Shinon," he said, his tone a mixture of surprise and trepidation.

Shinon turned his head slowly — Ike quickly hid his uneasiness, replacing it with a mild, inoffensive smile. Soren's expression, by contrast, was flat and distant.

"How, uh..." Ike stumbled a bit, then finished, "How are things going with the company?"

Shinon hesitated for a moment — it seemed he might be just as nonplussed as Soren felt right now — before he narrowed his eyebrows and snorted. "Hell of a lot better than when _you_ were running things," Shinon answered, "though we're having trouble erasing your ignoble memory entirely — y'know people call us _Ike's_ mercenaries, sometimes, now?"

Ike's jaw tightened. "Yes, I've heard. But that doesn't mean anything." Then, glancing down the bar and seeing no familiar faces, he asked, "Where's Titania?"

Shinon smiled savagely. "At base." When he saw Ike's puzzlement, he laughed. "Think she can afford to go running around on every damn mission we book nowadays, runt? We're in high demand, now. High class mercenaries. Turns out singlehandedly saving the princess's ass'll put any group of louts in high demand, who knew."

"Queen, now," Ike cut in with a frown. Shinon had always been impudent, and mostly Ike had dealt with it by just ignoring it — but it still rankled Ike to hear the queen spoken of like that. To hear Elincia spoken of like that.

Shinon shrugged. "Whatever. Anyway, there's only a handful of us on this job, and I'm the commanding officer for it."

"What?" Ike asked, reflexively — he couldn't help it. _Shinon?_

Shinon smirked grimly. "You could at least _try_ to hide your disgust."

"Figure Ike could say the same about you."

Shinon turned towards Soren, squinted a bit, and then grunted in recognition: "Shrimp."

Soren stared levelly back at Shinon, unruffled.

"You sure you're old enough to be hanging around here? This is where the _adults_ are drinking." Shinon laughed hollowly. "God. When the fuck are you going to grow a bit, for a change? You still look about twelve. Exactly twelve. _Rolf's_ taller 'n you."

Soren felt his heart rate jump. He _knew_ Shinon was just taunting him, he _knew_ it was the painfully petty and obvious insult, but... well, he hadn't aged normally for six years now. Was _this_ the year people would start to notice? Stefan's words from years ago echoed in Soren's mind: _"It's merely a matter of time before your heritage becomes... evident. You won't be able to remain in the same place."_

Soren shuddered despite himself.

Shinon smirked, taking Soren's shudder as a little victory. "An' you, Ike," he said, "how's it feel being the princess's lapdog?"

"Queen," Ike corrected again, distractedly: he was casting a sidelong glance at Soren, who was clearly a bit out of sorts. "And it's fine. We ought to be getting along, though. I wish you well in your endeavors."

Ike made a motion to leave, but Shinon wasn't having it: "Oh-ho! Talkin' like a real nobleman now, aren't you?" the bowman sneered. He screwed up his expression into a mock-imperious one, holding his nose in the air and mimicking a nobleman's accent: "_Wish you well in your endeavors._ How very _formal_. You haven't even asked what the mission _is_, idiot."

"What's the mission?" Ike asked wearily.

"Cutting down some subhumans by the southwest border."

"Laguz," Ike corrected. "A group of bandits, I'm assuming?"

"Who cares?"

Ike stiffened, giving Shinon a cold stare. It was the sort of stare that members of the court quailed underneath, but Shinon didn't so much as twitch. "Titania wouldn't have sent you on the mission if it didn't have a good cause," Ike said finally, in a very quiet, controlled voice.

Shinon scowled as if he'd just eaten something rotten. "Suppose you're right, runt," Shinon muttered. "You an' Titania, prissy laguz lovers for life."

Ike thought about snapping back — he didn't like the way Shinon was talking, didn't like the way he talked about Titania or the laguz — but Shinon had already turned back to his drink, evidently considering the conversation over.

He stole a sideways glance at Soren. He still looked shaken.

"C'mon," he said softly, and the two of them headed on, past the bar and restaurant to where they could find the tavern's rooms.

* * *

><p>Soren woke two hours before dawn.<p>

Or, rather, he'd woken for the last time two hours before dawn. His sleep had been fitful, punctuated by short bouts of wakefulness and anxious dreams. When he woke _this_ time, he was surprised to find the room still dark — but he didn't feel like he'd be able to fall asleep again, either. No point in lying around any longer, anyway. He rose quickly, taking care to remain silent — the other bed in the room had a still-snoozing Ike lying in it, snoring loudly.

Soren snatched a book from his things — _The Parentless_, from the day before — and sat in the room's one lounge chair. By the time the sun came up, he was on page one hundred and two, precisely two-thirds of the way through. Ordinarily, he'd have been finished with the book by this time, but he was finding it slow going, in parts. Not because the writing was particularly dry or dull, but rather, there were parts when Soren could hardly stand to read on, the words were so infuriating:

_The wiser among us laguz know the Parentless upon seeing them — and that is well and good for all of Gallia. Additionally, those who know a Parentless are obligated to ignore him. Do not listen to the Parentless's appeals for help or assistance; do not turn towards him as you pass him on the road; do not so much as engage in a conversation about the weather. To daft beorc, this would seem cruelty. They would say, you cannot just leave a living being alone like that. They would say, you are savages. But they misunderstand — we laguz, we of Gallia, we are closer to nature. We see a Parentless and are repulsed — and we have not come to rule the lands of Gallia by ignoring our instincts. We are wise to feel repulsed; we are wiser still when we heed that instinct. To engage with a Parentless is to risk peril for oneself, for one's family, for one's tribe, and for one's nation. To protect all that — we must let the Parentless starve._

Soren nearly slammed the book shut right then. He resisted the impulse — Ike was still sleeping in the other bed, and he didn't want to wake him — but Soren was clutching the book so tightly in both hands that he could hear the spine starting to crack.

After spending a long moment staring at nothing and gritting his teeth, he turned his eyes haltingly back towards the book. That's when he spied one angry little word, inked in the margin next to that passage: "rubbish."

Soren felt a surge of something like gratitude for whoever wrote that angry word. Some other thinking being who knew how loathsome these words were, how despicable the whole idea of _parentless_ people was.

Then he blinked, taking a closer look at that inked word, and frowned. He flipped backwards a few chapters — there'd been markings throughout this book, though he hadn't been paying much attention. Most of the commentary was simple and straightforward — succinct summaries of some of the longer, drier passages, or little question marks and exclamation points at the questionable and surprising points. So straightforward that Soren hadn't even been taking notice — but as he flipped through the pages now, he noticed they all seemed to have the same handwriting. And the marks were relatively recent, judging by the quality of the ink — still dark and clear, not smudged or fading with age.

The obvious conclusion jumped to his mind — he forced himself to find reasons to deny it. This was an old book, a very old book. Anyone could've been marking it. And even if _he_ had been the one to mark it, there could've been any number of reasons he was reading this. An angry word scribbled in one margin meant nothing.

And yet...

Just then, he heard Ike stirring. Soren jerked his head around, saw that Ike was rubbing his eyes.

Soren didn't waste time. "Ike," Soren called abruptly, "did Zihark ever tell you why he was with those vigilantes in Toha?"

Ike moved his hands from his face and blinked groggily. "Ah... it was to help the laguz."

"But _why_ did he want to help the laguz?" Soren was staring right at Ike now, with unnatural intensity. "He's Daeinish, right? Odd for a Daein man to have such deep sympathy for the laguz. Particularly a mercenary. It'd be easier to pick up jobs without such scruples."

"He's... Daenish? What?"

Soren's eyes widened in disbelief. "Really, Ike? You couldn't hear his accent?" Soren thought that had been _obvious_...

"I... guess not?" Ike shook his head. "Anyway, Zihark's probably just always disagreed with his country or whatever. I mean, does he need a reason to do the right thing?"

Soren gave him a withering look. Ike had been raised oblivious to the very existence of laguz, so of course it was easy for him to think of it in terms of a simple choice — Ike had simply _chosen_ to regard the laguz as equals, and that was that. It was not so simple for a Daenish child — they'd been raised in a culture that loathed the laguz, that made sport of hunting them, a culture where every facet of government and schooling echoed the message that _subhumans deserve death_. It was hard to see past that, hard to put aside old grudges.

No, Soren didn't think Zihark was some paragon. There was a reason he disagreed with homeland. There was a reason he left. Unconsciously, Soren began stroking the spine of the book he was holding with one hand, and fell silent.

Ike, meanwhile, was finally dragging himself out of bed and gathering his things. "I think I'm going to go talk to Zihark again, anyway. Maybe he'll talk about that." Ike gave a small sigh. "Or maybe he'd just _tell_ us what happened and save us all the trouble of beating around the bush with all this..."

"Good luck with that," Soren muttered. "I'm going back to Zihark's house."

Ike looked skeptical. "Don't you think you could maybe talk to the townsfolk some more and find out stuff that way?"

Soren gave Ike a rather acrid scowl and shuddered slightly. "That was hardly... pleasant, yesterday." More briskly, he added: "By now, the gossip's spread enough that everyone knows you're Lord Ike and I'm with you and they won't be saying a thing to me. Might be able to access some town records — but Zihark's house, first. I have a hunch."

* * *

><p>The door into the corridor clanged open loudly — too loudly. Zihark suspected who was there, cringing a bit, even before the visitor called out to him: "Good morning, Zihark."<p>

Zihark inclined his head very slightly, meeting's Ike's eyes for an brief moment before letting his gaze fall once more.

Ike grabbed a rather shabby-looking wooden stool from nearby and pulled it towards the cell door, planting himself in front of Zihark. He said nothing for a long moment, just watching Zihark, noting the swordsman's posture — then, he sighed. "You're still not talking to me."

Zihark didn't bother nodding a confirmation. Another long pause.

"Okay, fine." Ike's tone wasn't quite _defeated_, but he was... relinquishing something. "If you don't want to talk about Woodward, Zihark, that's fine." Zihark blinked in surprise. "We can at least do some catching up, right?"

Begrudgingly, Zihark glanced up again. This time, he held Ike's gaze — there was an unsteadiness there, deep in Zihark's eyes, and Ike was reminded once again of a caged tiger. But yesterday, that tiger had been snarling. Today, it was pacing the edge of its cage, watching him with wary eyes — bewildered, cautious, untrusting eyes. As Ike held Zihark's gaze, he felt an abrupt stab of indignation, unbidden and unwelcome but sharp just the same — what on earth had _he_ done, Ike thought furiously, to earn that kind of look? He wasn't the mayor; he wasn't the townsfolk. He was trying to help Zihark. They'd fought side-by-side in a _war_ together, for the goddess's sake. What on earth gave Zihark the _right_ to look at him like he was an enemy...?

But just as quickly, Ike swallowed hard, trying to swallow his resentment. It was a petty emotion, an unworthy emotion — he blinked, clearing his throat and continuing in earnest: "I don't even know where you've been, these past few years. What brought you to Morholt? What've you been doing? Have you been traveling at all?"

The silence hung heavily after Ike dropped his questions, and the two were still staring at each other. Zihark was the first to look away — the silence was too much, and his whole body felt taught for whatever reason. So strange — he'd been sitting in this prison for several days before Ike ever arrived, in a sort of meditative, vacant state, and he'd not felt a thing — not when the prison guards had jeered at him, not when he'd stopped eating, nothing. But with Ike in the room... he couldn't just stay detached like that. Yesterday, Ike had drawn out his anger, and today... well, he wasn't sure what Ike might draw out, and it put him on edge.

Slowly, he turned and looked at Ike. Just _talking_ was fine, surely? He could manage that, even in this odd, coiled state he was in.

"Well..." Zihark's voice felt rather low and husky to his ears, as if he'd gone a long while without water. (Well, he guessed he had, now that he thought of it. He hadn't been paying much attention to himself.) "Well, Ike, I..."

And his tongue fell flat.

He tried. He opened his mouth a few more times, mouthing a few useless almost-words, and even stammered a false start or two: "Um." "Uh, well." He didn't know where to begin because there _was_ nowhere to begin — everything led back to Woodward, and why he'd killed Woodward, one way or another. He thought, a little wildly, trying to recall some way to start a lighthearted banter, some harmless piece of gossip to share, but he was drawing a blank. He cast Ike a rather helpless gaze at this point, his gray bangs falling into his eyes — and he couldn't even manage the words to _explain_ why he couldn't speak.

After a handful of minutes that felt like an eternity, Ike finally spoke, gently: "The capitol is really lovely, this time of year. I wish you could come see it."

Zihark exhaled, sharply. Ike kept talking, amicable as ever: "I don't know if you'd spent much time in the capital, before we liberated it — I know I hadn't — but you wouldn't believe the foliage. A couple of Greil's Mercenaries came up for the autumn festival — you remember Titania and Oscar, right? So they came up, and I swear in all my life I've never heard as wonderful of music as there was performed at this year's festival..."

And Ike just kept talking.

Zihark arched his eyebrows skeptically, at first. It all seemed so... banal. Well, not quite banal. Just... so ordinary. Expected. If Ike really had been coming down just to visit Zihark, this was exactly the sort of thing Ike would be chatting about — how all their old friends were doing, what it was like to live in the capitol, amusing anecdotes about how poorly he fit in with the nobleborns. There wasn't a strategy behind all this chatter — at least, not as far as Zihark could tell. Ike hadn't even mentioned Woodward once. He kept his silence, but he felt more and more awkward as Ike just kept on. It _had_ been a long time. They _had_ been friends. And here was Ike, just talking. Just talking to him.

Zihark almost laughed at the realization: Ike didn't know how to be anything except himself. Him as a player in court politics had to strike all the Crimean royalty as an absurdity: there wasn't an ounce of savvy or smarm or deception of any kind in him. Politician-Ike simply didn't know any better than to just be who he was, and act however he saw fit.

And in the face of such openness, such honesty, Zihark felt a distinct pang of guilt. Abruptly, he heard himself cut in, halfway through one of Ike's rambling anecdotes: "Listen, Ike." Ike stopped speaking immediately, looking at Zihark with respectful, rapt attention. Zihark tried to meet his eyes, but couldn't quite manage it. "Please, just... understand. I don't have anything against you. Honest. I appreciate your coming here, and you're doing me a great service. But, I, but..." Zihark trailed helplessly into silence once again, and he cursed himself for it.

"But what?" Ike prodded gently.

Zihark stared at Ike blankly. That was all he could offer. _But I can't talk to you, and I'm sorry._

Ike frowned, pausing for a moment, as if thinking over a very hard problem. "I don't understand, Zihark," he said at last — cautiously, so cautiously. "I don't think you want to die. Do you?"

_No,_ Zihark thought suddenly, fiercely – and was instantly sickened by the thought. _You steeled yourself for this,_ he reminded himself. _It's better this way._ And a tinier, more cowardly voice in the back of his head chimed: _It hurts less this way._

Ike went on: "The man I met back in Toha had been protecting the laguz. He'd been longing for years to join a greater cause, helping to protect them."

_Oh, Ashera._ Zihark felt his jaw clench. Ike's words stung. Did Ike know how much this hurt? Didn't Ike understand how hard this was for him, without his meddling? Didn't Ike know that Zihark had been resolved and at peace with this fate?

_Had_ been. When had that become past tense?

"I don't understand why he would throw that goal away — why _you_ would throw that away, Zihark. If you're dead, you can't help anyone."

As a frantic last measure, Zihark tried to retreat — retreat back to that vague, meditative state he'd been in for the past few days, before Ike arrived. He bowed his head, now certain that he wouldn't be able to meet Ike's eyes, and tried to shut him out, tried desperately to ignore the earnest young man sitting before him.

"You can tell me, Zihark."

"I'm not speaking to you any longer," he forced out, stiffly. An echo from yesterday. But said with a great deal less conviction, now. Could Ike hear that?

Maybe. Ike lingered — lingered a very long while. Waiting for Zihark to speak, Zihark guessed — he didn't dare meet Ike's gaze, for fear he might do just that.

"Later," Ike intoned softly, like a promise. Then, he stood, scooted the stool back against the wall.

Zihark listened to the retreating footsteps — _later_ was no good, Ike should not come back later. How could he get that through the Crimean general's head? When Ike was almost at the door, about to leave, Zihark called out, "Ike."

"Yes?"

And Zihark's tongue — damn his tongue — fell flat once more. Ike stepped back toward him, staring curiously at him through the iron bars. Zihark tried to say, _It's better this way._ He tried to say, _You're meddling where you aren't wanted_. Zihark tried to say, _You won't understand._ But he couldn't force any of the words out. How had all his convictions been shaken so easily? He managed one, just one word, in an embarrassingly forlorn tone: "Ike."

Ike waited. And waited. But Zihark couldn't manage anything else.

"Later," Ike repeated, with the slightest of smiles playing over his lips. "I'll be back, Zihark."

* * *

><p>How hadn't he seen it before?<p>

When Soren had been here yesterday, he had been so focused on that overturned bookcase that he'd practically ignored everything else. _Stupid_, he thought to himself. _Wasteful. _It was unlike him to focus overmuch on one set of details, missing the larger picture, but that was just what he had done.

Within the first five minutes of this day's investigation — just by opening up the _closet_, of all things — he was leagues ahead of where he'd been the day before. There wasn't immediately anything of interest — some clothes, a few blades and scabbards, satchels, that sort of thing — but there was a nondescript crate shoved in the back corner that caught Soren's eye. He took a quick glance over his shoulder before remembering that Ike wasn't there — Ike would've scowled at him, thinking that it looked too much like looting to just start digging through Zihark's effects. But Soren held no such compunctions — turning back to the wooden back, he quickly pulled it out and cracked the lid open.

Clothes. Just clothes inside. Plain and practical, like so many of Zihark's things. But Soren frowned, staring for a moment before reaching his hands inside and pulling out one of the tops.

Holding it unfurled in front of him, it was easy to see the shirt wasn't Zihark's size. Or shape. More feminine than that — women's clothes.

Soren's eyebrows shot up. Tossing that top to the side, he dug further into the box. Each item had been so neatly folded and stacked — either this woman was just as neurotically tidy as Zihark, or he'd been folding them himself. And there wasn't anything else in the box — no jewelry, no other personal effects, nothing.

Sighing, Soren pulled a hand away, brushing it off against his side — and noticed a few faint hairs glistening on his black cloak.

No — he looked closer. Not hair. Too short for that, with a thicker quality to it, and an orangish tint.

_Laguz fur_.

Soren stared blankly at the faint little furs on his cloak, then, reflexively, he reached out and snapped the crate's lid shut. Well, this _was_ what he'd suspected, right? He kept staring at the fur. He'd suspected this — so why did he feel suddenly queasy? Hands trembling slightly, he shoved the crate back into the closet and exited the bedroom, back into the foyer.

_Facts_, he found himself thinking. He was still shaking — why was he shaking? _Focus on the facts_. That was all Ike needed: this is what happened, this is why Zihark did what he did, this is how to get him a pardon. Even if he'd been living with a laguz. Even if they had been lovers, even if bile was rising in his throat even as he thought of it —

There still wasn't enough. He willed himself to stop shaking: focus, facts. Glancing around the foyer, he hoped to spy other missed details, overlooked facts — Soren needed the whole story. Otherwise, what he'd just learned was a curiosity, some random dot that he hadn't connected yet. There certainly wasn't much to the foyer, though. A rug, spanning the entirety of a floor. A wooden chest of drawers. Bare walls — Zihark either had a very sparse sense of aesthetics, or no sense of aesthetics at all.

But — was that a stain on the rug, in the far corner of the room? It was the darkest corner; the sunlight didn't quite pour through the windows quite right. A casual observer probably wouldn't even notice, but Soren walked toward the corner, crouching once he was close enough to get a better look.

Yes — stains. Maybe coffee stains? They were a faint, faded brown — patchy, splotchy. Soren turned, looking over his shoulder — every other inch of the rug was pristinely clean and white. Zihark was a meticulous fellow; he'd obviously tried to wash out these stains. Maybe there had been more of them, and these were just the stubbornest of them.

Odd place for coffee stains... Soren leaned in more closely, the realization dawning over him slowly. He'd been in enough battles and around enough healers to recognize this particular coloration. And sure, Zihark was a meticulous fellow — but even someone meticulous as he couldn't completely erase this.

Bloodstains. A great deal of them — they covered a large section of the rug in even now, and who knew how much Zihark had managed to wash away? But... Woodward had been killed on a town street. Ike had been attacked in the bedroom.

So what had happened here? Whose blood had been spilt?

Leaning over, Soren traced his fingers delicately over the faint outlines, scowling. Nothing was certain yet — but he had a suspicion, and it wasn't a happy one.

He lingered a while, hands resting over those stains. Then, sighing, he rose, brushing the last of the laguz fur from him. He had some villagers to consult, some town records to sort through — a hunch to confirm.

* * *

><p>By the time Soren was finished in town, Ike had already been waiting at Zihark's home for an anxious hour. He stood just outside the front door of the little house, peering down towards the town. It was so far from Morholt that the town seemed like little more than a collection of colored blips: people, horses, wagons, peddlers, all reduced to muffled sounds and blurry figures. It was a serene view, in its own lonely way, Ike supposed — suited Zihark well, anyway.<p>

Idly, Ike lifted a hand and ran his fingers down the house's outside wall. He hoped he could return Zihark there soon. It was a lovely little place; it'd be a shame to waste it.

Turning back towards the town, Ike saw Soren's silhouette, still distant but approaching rapidly. Ike smiled as soon as he could get a good look at Soren's face. Soren returned the smile, but it was thin and short-lived. By the time he was in front of the house with Ike, Soren's expression was hard and sour again.

"You must've been busy," Ike began. "I wasn't able to find out much, I'm afraid —"

"Ike," Soren interrupted, "inside, please." He grabbed Ike's arm and jerked him through the front door brusquely.

"Ooookay..." Ike rubbed his arm idly where Soren had jerked it while Soren whirled and slammed the front door after him. "Er, what's wrong, Soren?"

"Ike," Soren said, in a voice that sounded stretched and thin, as he turned towards Ike once more, "did you know Zihark was living with a — with a laguz?"

"No." Ike answered truthfully. Then, after a pause: "So?"

"Living with her. As lovers." Soren's face was pale, almost as pale as Ike had ever seen it, and his eyes carried a strange, burning intensity, demanding _something_ from Ike.

"Okay," Ike answered simply. "So...?"

"So?" Soren's tone hardened, becoming very quiet — but simmering with rage, just beneath the surface. "Ike, this willful naiveté must end at some point! So they were violating — _brazenly_ violating — the gravest of all taboos in beorc society. To you, it may be a 'so?', but to every other thinking being in the country, it is at least a cause for pause, if not revulsion!"

Ike lifted a hand to his forehead, giving an annoyed sigh and closing his eyes as he raked his fingers into his hair. "Okay," he grumbled, "okay, Soren, I understand what you're _saying_, but I'm not going to panic and act horrified about this. What can you — can you tell me about her, then? Maybe talking to her will help? You think she knows something that can help?"

Soren said nothing, just kept staring at Ike with angry little eyes.

Remembering where he was, Ike took a quick survey of the room. "Are they still together?"

"That. Well, that." Soren's gaze seemed to cool, and his shoulders sagged a bit. "Well — look down. That carpet you're standing on."

Ike looked, then squinted his eyes in confusion, easing to his knees to get a better look.

"It's faint — but that's blood there, Ike."

"Blood?" A pause. "Why...?

"I helped myself to some of the town's records." Soren scowled with distaste: just getting access to those records had taken a considerable amount of hem-hawing and arm-twisting. The clerical staff at the town hall had feigned ignorance, feigned incompetence, until Soren simply slipped into the backroom and started ploughing through things himself. "Seems Zihark reported it to the town's guardsmen the night it happened — he'd been out, but just as he was returning, he saw three men fleeing his house."

Ike looked up, regarding his companion carefully. Soren's eyes were fixed upon the blood spatters on the floor, but they had a faraway quality to them — he was looking _past _them, and he moved his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Ike was familiar with this gaze — Soren saw what was happening, understood the mentality of the townsfolk, knew how all the pieces fit together, and he simply needed a few moments to put them into words. So Ike waited.

After a long silence, Soren continued. "She'd been stabbed. Already dead by the time Zihark got back — murder. And, you know, murder's not an easy thing for a town to deny." His gaze was still fixed on the blood on the ground, but his forehead was furrowed angrily, despite his cool tone. "But they could try to ignore it. Sweep the whole messy incident under the rug, ask as few questions as possible, drop the case after a day or two of desultory investigation. Which is, of course, what happened." Soren shook his head and let one coarse, bitter laugh escape — the kind of laugh that raised the hairs on Ike's neck. "I wouldn't be surprised if half of the townsfolk knew the murderer's name. But why would they make a fuss over it? They'd risk causing an awful stir over such a _little_ thing, incriminating noble Mr. Woodward, who was just trying to protect the town from one of those filthy subhumans —"

"Soren, stop!" Ike's shouted. He'd lurched back to his feet, and his hand was clenched in a fist at his side. "I get what you're saying," Ike added quickly, "I just... I can't stand it."

"Zihark couldn't stand it, either. He took over what justice could not do."

Ike frowned. "It was revenge, then."

"Mm-hm." Soren seemed to shake himself a bit, blinking and turning his gaze from the ground back towards Ike. "I don't quite see all of it — I don't see why Woodward chose right now to strike, since the two had to have been living in Morholt for a while. And I don't see why Zihark's refusing to talk about it."

"That's fine," Ike answered declaratively. He met Soren's eyes with a strange intensity. "It was retribution, for a crime that was ignored. That's something. I don't know why Zihark won't talk but — we don't need him too. This is enough."

"Yes," Soren answered mildly. He sighed slightly — he wasn't looking forward to this next meeting — but it was necessary. "To the mayor, then, I presume?"

* * *

><p>The town hall wasn't particularly busy today — the mayor'd been doing this and that, here and there, but honestly, there wasn't much left for him to do but idle about, and he'd been thinking about heading home early. He hadn't heard anything else from Lord Ike and his little compatriot — a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. Dealing with the pair of them put him on edge, and if he kicked off now he wouldn't have to worry about them any more —<p>

"Mind if we chat?"

The mayor felt a light hand on his shoulder, and he startled a bit, before turning to see that it was Lord Ike. _Speak of the devil._ Ike's tone was polite — mostly — though the mayor couldn't help but notice that his words were a bit clipped, a bit too harsh. Right behind Ike stood that advisor of his — Soren, wasn't it? — giving him a steady glare, one that made the mayor swallow hard before answering.

"Ah. Well, um..." Wringing his hands, he looked quickly at Soren, then Ike, then the door of the town hall — gah, it looked so inviting, so close — but no. He couldn't simply brush such nobles aside. Not that he was particularly _happy_, either — but with a tiny sigh, he answered, "Certainly, Lord Ike. Let's go to my office."

Soren blinked in surprise. He'd been expecting the mayor to make some dumb excuse to leave — perhaps this fellow wasn't the _wholly_ shifty, spineless creature that Soren thought of him as.

The mayor led the pair of them briskly down a corridor, and they turned at the very end of the hall into an office that was surprisingly modest, considering this mayor's taste for fine silk clothes. It was rather cluttered, papers and books piled thickly on every available surface, and he had to root around a bit to find some chairs for his guests. As soon as he offered them seats, went to his chair, cleared off some space on the desk, folded his hands neatly together in front of him, and offered as generous of a grin as he could manage: "What can I help you with?"

"Well," Ike began, "there's been more than one murder in this town recently, hasn't there?"

The way the mayor's expression just _collapsed_ was almost comical. First, he looked as though he'd been gut-punched, and as soon as he could manage to speak again, he was sputtering senselessly. "Er, um, well, you see, Lord, um..."

Ike pressed on, gently but firmly: "It's just, I found it interesting you didn't mention that. You went on about how peaceful this place is — two murders in a month had to be a shock for everyone."

"What did Zihark say to you two?" the mayor demanded in a hard whisper. "The boy's a liar."

Ike scowled, ignoring the question. "That first murder, mayor. It was the laguz Zihark was living with, correct? We found the blood in his home."

"That wasn't... she wasn't..." The mayor's voice had jumped up in pitch, and he was beginning to look a touch frantic. "We looked into it, Lord Ike, but their simply wasn't much evidence..."

Soren cut in: "Well, according to the town's records —" Soren saw the mayor's face twist in shock and indignation. His scowl deepened, and he continued stiffly: "— yes, the town records, mayor. Can't imagine why your clerical staff was having such _difficulty_ finding the documents I was asking for. I decided to save them some trouble and look into it myself, and they were all quite well organized."

He met the mayor's eyes — saw the panic there. Saw that realization — the mayor knew he was found out, knew he was beaten.

"So, according to those records," Soren continued, pressing his advantage with a cool sneer tugging at his lips, "Zihark had seen Woodward fleeing the scene. Funnily enough, no one went to investigate Woodward's home until a week later — plenty of time for Woodward to dispose of the murder weapon and concoct an alibi. Zihark had also mentioned two other townsfolk who were with Woodward, neither of which were investigated. Giving these circumstances, I can't help but think there wasn't a lack of evidence, but rather, a lack of effort..."

"Thank you, Soren," Ike acknowledged quietly, but did not move his eyes from the mayor. "This is basis for a pardon, I think."

The mayor looked thunderstruck. "You can't be serious," he sputtered. "Are you advocating for vigilantism? Would you have all of us simply — simply _take to the streets_ whenever there is a grievance? There are _laws_ here, man!"

"I would have you do your job," Ike answered, very quietly, very earnestly. "I think there's already a great injustice that's been done here. I don't think piling Zihark's death on top of it will mend anything."

For once — the only time Ike could recall since arriving in town — the mayor was simply speechless. His expression was wide-eyed, a mixture of consternation, disbelief, and indignation, but he didn't so much as move his lips to even _try_ to speak.

"Please, get his things," Ike continued, in that same soft, earnest voice. "Get his paperwork in order. I'll meet you in front of the prison in an hour, and we'll release him."

It was an order, not a request. Ike gave a single nod before rising, pushing his chair in, and turning to leave. Soren did likewise.

* * *

><p>Now they were just biding time, so Soren and Ike took the chance to take a stroll through the town. Their tour was aimless, and mostly silent — they stuck mostly to back alleys and infrequently-traveled little roads, trying to avoid the bother of dealing with too much popular attention. Soren was right, after all — even though they hadn't made a big show of their arrival, word had spread by now, and villagers were now quite likely to recognize the famous war heroes if they strolled straight through the town's market district.<p>

So, they stuck to these obscure paths. While they walked, side by side, Soren swallowed hard. It was hard to ignore that shaky, queasy feeling, from when he had first been exploring Zihark's house earlier that day. And it hadn't abated, not entirely — Soren'd merely contained it, gotten some measure of control over it, and now he was brooding over it, trying to determine precisely the source of his discomfort.

It wasn't that he disliked _Zihark_ in particular. Zihark was fine — they'd never been chummy, sure, but he'd been a good, reliable soldier and an agreeable fellow. With regards to Zihark's crime — well, it was true that Soren didn't think a full pardon was _entirely_ in order. There _had_ been a crime, and it might be better for Zihark to serve at least a few months of penance, rather than letting him off the hook entirely.

But that was a trifle, a quibbling. Execution, after all, was certainly more unjustifiable than the pardon. But that wasn't the real issue; that wasn't what had made Soren's stomach go queasy. It was before that. Earlier than that. More fundamental than that.

And Ike wasn't going to like it.

Soren swallowed again before speaking. "I hope you've thought about this," he muttered lowly, staring fixedly at the ground in front of him — but he undoubtedly meant for Ike to hear every word. "What you're doing here. What it means."

Ike tilted his head toward Soren, but didn't break his stride. "Er, what are you saying, Soren?"

Soren halted in his steps. Ike did likewise, pausing a few paces after and turning back to look at his friend. Soren's eyes were still fixed on the ground, his dark bangs falling to obscure half his face. "What I'm saying is... Well, I don't think Zihark's choice was particularly... wise. And I think many others will think the same."

A pause. Soren glanced up. Ike clenched his jaw, and Soren saw a flicker of irresolution on his friend's face. "I mean, it wasn't wise," Ike conceded. "But it's _justifiable_. You see that, right? I mean, I'm not sure I could just do _nothing_, if someone I cared about had been murdered, and no one lifted a finger —"

"No, not _that_ choice," Soren cut in sharply. "I mean, him even _being_ with a laguz in the first place. That choice."

"That choice," Ike repeated flatly. His eyebrows drew together, and his tone became a bit harsher: "That shouldn't matter, Soren."

"But it does," Soren protested. "It _does_ matter, Ike, no matter how much you say it doesn't, no matter how much you _want_ it to not matter. What he was doing was thoughtless, thoughtless to the point of idiocy." Soren's voice was growing heated now — he hadn't known he cared so much; he was just figuring things out as he was speaking. "Zihark was willing to continue with this — this _romance_ of his, despite the hatred he'd be drawing from both the beorc and laguz, willing to endanger his and her safety, maybe even _inflict_ that cursed burden on his own children... I have trouble standing for that."

"What are you saying, Soren?" Ike's eyes were simmering, now, even though his voice remained controlled. "You want me to just go ahead and let them kill Zihark?"

"No." Just like that, the heat was draining from Soren's voice — he was back to his usual flatness, his usual iciness. "You're in charge, Ike. I'm deferring to you. But as your advisor, I'm saying — well, I'm just saying, you'd better be sure about this."

Ike's eyes narrowed — but not out of irritation, anymore, but rather, concern. Soren had cooled, but he was still trembling, very slightly. Tentatively, Ike reached out a hand for Soren's shoulder. "I know this may be hard on you —"

Soren jerked away. "Ike, this has nothing to do with me. I'll be fine. I just want to make sure you've thought this through — and you obviously have."

An awkward silence.

"Yes, I have," Ike answered.

Soren glanced up, meeting Ike's eyes for a moment — then looked down and away once more. "I'll see you back at the prison, then. Shortly. I'm going — I'm going this way."

Without another word, Soren turned and walked the other way, turned another corner, and disappeared from Ike's sight.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks again to all the reviewers! As always, I do read all the reviews and take them into account when writing future chapters._

* * *

><p>It had started with a series of coincidences — accidents, almost.<p>

One particularly slow night at the tavern where Raelsha worked, Zihark had become so engrossed in the book he'd been reading that he was still lingering long after the other customers had cleared out, and Raelsha had politely asked him to leave. But on his way out, she asked him what he had been reading — and that question had turned into an hour-long meandering discussion, starting with literature and leading to questions about her work at the tavern, questions about Zihark's skill with the sword, little anecdotes and jokes here and there. She was from Gallia, he'd learned, but she was working in Begnion to earn some beorc money to further her travels. She had quite the case of wanderlust; at seventeen, she'd already traveled most of the Gallian countryside and a fair amount of Begnion.

It was funny — Zihark realized, as he was leaving, that he'd never spoken more then two words to a laguz before. When he'd been living in Daein, of course, there _had_ been no laguz, and he'd only been stationed with in Begnion with this mercenary group for a couple of months. Though laguz in Begnion were free, there weren't many of them, and nearly all of them were in low-wage positions — day laborers, artisans, and the like, the sort of folk that Zihark didn't often associate with.

Then, later, one weekend afternoon, Zihark had spotted Raelsha at the market. She had smiled when he greeted her, but her bags looked so heavy. He found out that she was shopping not just for herself, but for the tavern: all the vegetables and meats they'd need for the next week. Zihark deigned to assist her, despite her heated protests ("I've been fine without your help every other weekend, sir, and I'll be fine now!"). They'd spent the next hour together, Zihark holding her bags while she picked through the farmers' produce. But that was the same courtesy Zihark would extend to any lady. It wasn't any different with Raelsha, was it?

Tonight was an accident, too — surely. Zihark had been intending to go to the theatre, anyway. It was just happenstance that he'd bumped into Raelsha near the tavern (though, he hadn't had any good _reason_ to be near the tavern anyway — the fastest route to the theatre went in the other direction). And since Zihark had bumped into her, it was just common courtesy to say hello — and ask how she was faring, and what her plans were for the night. And when Raelsha revealed that she _had_ no plans for the evening, why, it was only polite to invite her to come along. Zihark wasn't going with anyone, after all, and it would be unfortunate to leave such a kind lady all by herself for the night.

And, when they were exiting the theatre and Raelsha had made a passing comment about how the lights of the town made it hard to see the stars — well, Zihark _did_ know a perfect ridge for stargazing, just a short walk from town. Why _wouldn't_ he offer to share the view with her?

Just coincidence, right?

_Right._

This was what Zihark would try to tell himself later — that it had all been random happenstance, just coincidence, even though deep down he _knew_ he'd meant to run into her, and he _knew_ he'd been hoping she'd agree to go, and he _knew_ that at this moment they were sitting too close, close enough to almost touch.

Right now, though, Zihark wasn't thinking of much besides Raelsha herself — and he _couldn't_ have thought of much else, even if he'd tried. Her every motion, every breath, every gesture held an almost hypnotic draw for him. He was a rather perceptive individual to begin with, but he felt attuned to Raelsha in a wholly different, deeper way. There was a particular way she held her head, when she was listening to him — _really_ listening to him — a slight curve of her neck that made her seem so fantastically elegant, somehow. And the gestures she made when she was telling a story — she gestured soemphatically with her hands that it was enduring.

And the two of them together had this funny way of laughing, sometimes, almost in sync to each other. She had such a light, pretty laugh. He tried to make her laugh as much as he could, as they sat there chatting and staring up at the stars. His brand of humor had always been rather subtle and understated, but she never missed a joke.

They'd been bantering for at least an hour when, very suddenly, she asked a question that made something in Zihark's gut twist: "Where are you from, anyway?"

There was something uncharacteristically chilly in her tone — as if, perhaps, she already knew or had guessed the answer. It wouldn't have been a particularly _hard_ guess. Though Zihark had taken care to never mention his homeland or too many details about his family, he still had an accent, and there were a sizable number of Daein mercenaries serving in his mercenary group.

He balked for a moment. He didn't want to tell her — though part of him was _disgusted_ that he wanted to conceal this. _What kind of citizen are you? Denying your heritage to some sub-human?_ Besides, he couldn't bring himself to lie to Raelsha: "I'm from Daein."

Raelsha nodded slowly at his short answer, staring towards the sky — though she'd been looking at Zihark only a moment ago. "And what's it like, in Daein?"

He thought about offering excuses — telling her that he had never killed a laguz, had never joined in the sub-human hunts. But was there that much of a difference? Certainly, his views had been moderate, relative to the typical Daein resident. He didn't want the laguz _exterminated_ — just _separated_, confined to their own, backwater countries, Gallia and the like. But he'd never said a word against those murders or hunts. When he'd lived in Daein, he thought his restraint made him more rational, more realistic than his compatriots. But now? Now, thinking of all the times he'd simply stood silent during those executions made him feel nauseous, for a reason he couldn't quite explain.

"You know, Raelsha," Zihark answered at last, forcing a light laugh, "It's been a long time since I was home. I daresay I don't even remember it too well, anymore."

"I see." There was still that chilliness in her voice, and she edged away from him ever so slightly. Zihark's heart sank: he'd tried making light of his heritage, but she'd probably sensed his hesitation, made some assumptions. Couldn't she see that he wasn't like _them_? he thought desperately. Though he didn't know what he _was_ like, anymore. He just knew that he couldn't stand having her edge away from him, couldn't stand the chill in her voice.

It was almost an impulse that made him lean toward her — though, he _knew_ what he was doing. He knew this was the step that he couldn't explain away, couldn't excuse as an accident or a coincidence or anything but his own desires, his own actions — but he did it anyway.

"Raelsha," he whispered. She turned to him — and he pressed his lips against hers.

The kiss was soft, delicate, and brief — and he could hear the voice of Daein screaming in the back of his head the whole while. _Don't sully yourself by associating with that with that foul, unnatural creature; this is against every commandment of Ashera; you are committing an irreversible error —_

Zihark pulled away, and that voice became louder. He could feel himself trembling.

But then Raelsha leaned forward, kissing him back. It was harder to hear that angry voice, when she was leaning against him — the closer she was, the more that voice faded. So, defiantly, Zihark threw an arm around Raelsha and pulled her closer to him, close as he could, and kissed her deeply beneath the starlight.

* * *

><p>The familiar <em>clang<em> of the prison door startled Zihark out of his reverie. Ike again, probably. He sighed, bracing himself for another lengthy, probing discussion. He was surprised, though, to see Ike had brought company this time — Soren, and the prison's warden. Zihark remembered Soren well from the Mad King's War: the dour, terse staff officer. He noticed that Soren glanced away when Zihark looked up at him — and Soren's expression was perhaps a bit sourer than Zihark had remembered. Of course, Zihark was also familiar with the warden, though he hadn't spoken much to the man— a rather bulky man with sallow skin and crooked teeth.

"Hey, Zihark?" Ike said, smiling. "Good news. You're being pardoned."

Zihark blinked. _Seriously?_ He knew Ike had some clout, but still, to reach such a resolution so quickly...?

The decision seemed to be final, though: the prison warden was already fiddling with a rusty old keyring, rifling through each key in turn. Zihark watched the warden a moment, feeling more and more anxious as the warden turned one key over, then the next, then the next... each time, one key closer to whatever would unlock his cell.

Finally, Zihark asked: "On what grounds?" His mouth was so dry that the words came out sounding raspy — he guessed it _had_ been a while since he'd drunk anything...

"We, er, well, we found out what happened," Ike answered.

How _much_ of what had happened? Zihark wanted to know — but he kept his silence.

Ike's expression became more grim — his gaze shifted to the empty space slightly left of Zihark, and he held one elbow in the other hand. "If I'd been wronged, the way you had... I might've done the same. So it's not fair to leave you here."

Zihark sighed heavily, closing his eyes, but said nothing. What else _could_ he say? He'd already told Ike to just listen to the mayor, to stay out of his affairs, to let him hang — and Ike had ignored every single one of those wishes. Why would he start listening _now_?

"I'm sorry about her," Ike added softly.

Zihark opened his eyes again, lifted his head slowly, and met Ike's gaze. "Her."

"The laguz you were living with."

"She had a name," he replied, a bit too stridently. "Her name was Raelsha."

Ike nodded, unruffled. "I'll remember, then. It's a pretty name."

Despite his foul mood, despite the fact that he'd rather not be freed — there was a softness to Ike's words that made Zihark feel a dull twinge of gratitude. Ike had been the first person he'd ever met to share his convictions regarding beorc and laguz — and, even after all this time, his conviction had not wavered.

The warden had found the appropriate key. With a few jerky motions, he twisted it in the rusty lock and swung the door open, sending a low, iron screech echoing in the narrow hall.

"Your personal effects," the warden muttered, tossing Zihark a small satchel. Zihark caught it, but didn't bother looking inside — he knew it was just whatever rubbish had been on his person when he'd been arrested. "And, uh..."

The warden pulled something from a long, slender bag — Zihark's sword, sheathed in its scabbard, the same sword he'd been holding the day he killed Woodward. The warden cast Ike a questioning glance. Ike nodded, and the warden handed it to Zihark.

"If you'll excuse me," the warden muttered as soon as the blade changed hands, and practically _scampered_ towards the door he'd entered from, casting Zihark one wild-eyed parting glance as he left. Zihark nearly chuckled — did that warden _honestly_ think he was going to go on some kind of murdering rampage, right after being released, with Lord Ike and his associate Soren standing beside him?

He took a moment to look at his sword, pulling it very slowly from its sheath and holding it in the palms of its hands. He'd been using the sword long enough to know it well: he knew the tiny cracks and dings on the scabbard, the exact weight of the unsheathed blade, and the feel of the ribbing on the handle. The familiarity of it was comforting, in a way — he looked it over for a long moment before he finally resheathed it, standing stiffly and fixing the scabbard to his waist. "That's it, then?"

"Yeah." Ike nodded encouragingly. "I think all the paperwork's done and handled, so, you're free to go."

No use delaying any further, then. It was done.

"Alright, then," Zihark said, forcing a brittle smile. "I guess I'll be getting on."

As Zihark made to leave, Ike walked alongside him, and Soren trailed a few paces behind. The mage hadn't said a single word to him yet, Zihark noticed, hadn't so much as met his eyes — _he doesn't like this_, Zihark thought. It was hardly surprising, Zihark supposed, though that didn't make the mage's presence any less unsettling.

As soon as they exited the prison, Zihark paused, blinking in the sudden sunlight — the prison had had only had a single, tiny window, and after spending so long in his cell, the brightness felt jarring. Once his eyes adjusted somewhat, he looked to the street before him. There weren't many other folks out and about, right now — it was the awkward, dead time in the afternoon shortly after lunch, when everyone had either set about working again or were too stuffed from their meal to feel like doing much of anything. But the few who _were_ on the streets had certainly taken notice of him: a woman walking with her child spotted Zihark and yanked her child closer, quickly turning onto another street, and a cluster of young men were gawping at Zihark none-too-kindly.

Ike seemed oblivious to them, though: "Hey, we should head to the tavern," he suggested cheerfully. "Drinks on me. It's probably been a while since you —"

"No," Zihark said forcefully — both Ike and Soren seemed to startle at his tone. The cluster of young men was still staring, and having so many eyes on him was making Zihark edgy. Zihark softened his tone: "Just, I'd rather not go there. Why don't we, er..." Zihark paused, faltering a moment before blurting the first alternative that sprung to his mind: "we could go to my house. I've probably got some drinks there."

"Sure," Ike shrugged, amicable as ever. "That sounds fine, too."

"I've some business of my own to attend to," Soren announced brusquely. "I think I'll have to pass. Excuse me."

Without another word, Soren shuffled away, nearly as quickly as the warden had — though, there was no fear in Soren's stride, and he didn't glance back even once. Zihark felt a twinge of unease. _What's he up to?_

"He's been acting a bit odd, since we got here," Ike said, almost as an apology, watching Soren's retreating figure. "Don't mind him."

"It's fine," Zihark answered dully, only half-paying attention to Ike. His eyes were anxiously scanning the street — the group of young men had finally moved on, but he still felt exposed, standing out here. "Let's go on, Ike."

* * *

><p>Zihark rustled about in the cupboard, but there simply wasn't much there: a bit of ale and a half-finished bottle of red wine. It was a rather sorry reflection on both his sparse lifestyle and the fact that he was so unused to guests — he wasn't sure anyone besides himself and Raelsha had ever been in the house. Zihark frowned, grabbing the wine. It suited Raelsha's tastes better than his own, but he poured two glasses anyway, handing one to Ike before sitting down across from him. It was probably a good thing Soren hadn't come, Zihark reflected idly; these two chairs were the only two chairs he had, and this table was rather tiny to begin with.<p>

"So, did you have any particular plans?" Ike asked. "Now that you're free again?"

Zihark cast Ike a faintly baleful look. He hadn't been thinking of anything other than that execution for the past few days. It had been comfortable, in its own way — he had nothing to be concerned over, no responsibilities, no need to plan or act or decide _anything_. So soon after being released, such a question felt both abrupt and overwhelming.

Ike tried again. "What had you been doing here before?"

Zihark sighed. Ike had asked that yesterday, and he'd found himself speechless. But now, of course, Ike knew about Raelsha, knew about everything — the whole _world_ knew. It struck him, faintly, as an injustice — what he and Raelsha had was intensely private. Why should anyone else judge him, for good or for ill? Even Ike's presence here felt like an intrusion — even though Zihark _knew_ this was irrational.

Nevertheless, Zihark found himself able to answer, surprising even himself as he spoke: "A bit of leatherwork. Fencing lessons. A few short-term mercenary contracts, though nothing very serious. This and that, enough to get by. But..." He frowned, trailing off. Those odd jobs had been fine, but they were mostly a quick and flexible means of gathering money, rather than some sort of calling. He and Raelsha traveled often; he loved being able to drop whatever he was doing and go roaming alongside her. And often, their travels were purposeful: when they could, they would assist laguz in need, or help resolve conflicts between beorc and laguz — the _real_ work that Zihark loved doing. But...

"Well, I don't want to be in Morholt anymore," Zihark finished. Even if he _had_ wanted to stay in Morholt, that simply wasn't an option. Once word spread that Zihark was walking free while Woodward was still six feet under, the townsfolk would start spurning him. Maybe even form up a band of vigilantes to come after him, like they had for Raelsha.

For a brief moment, such a possibility was tempting — he could still have an execution, of sorts, at the hands of vigilantes, and die in Raelsha's name. But Ike's words from the day before were still swirling around uneasily in his mind: _If you're dead, you can't help anyone_. Zihark still wasn't sure if Ike was quite right, and he still wasn't sure if he appreciated Ike freeing him. But he wasn't so convinced that he was willing to rush and meet death once again.

So, no, Zihark would not stay in Morholt. But where _would_ he go? He certainly couldn't return to Daein. Even if he concealed his past, even if he took the greatest of pains to never mention Raelsha, the risk was simply too great. If anyone in Daein discovered his past... Well, a fate worse than death was probably in store for him.

So he could head to some other part of Crimea, or Begnion, perhaps. He certainly couldn't retreat to Gallia, since —

"Zihark."

Ike's voice interrupted Zihark's thoughts, and he startled a bit, nearly spilling his wine. "Pardon?"

"Sorry. You looked sort of... out of it." Ike shook his head. "Anyway. If you don't want to stay in Morholt, would you want to come back to Melior with me? I'm sure I could find you some position in the palace. Or the Crimean royal guard; I could vouch for your skills —"

"No," Zihark said, a little too abruptly. "No, not Melior." The thought of all those _people_ made him feel suddenly claustrophobic, though he'd never had a problem with cities before.

Ike quirked an eyebrow, but chose not to comment on Zihark's apparent unease. "Well, if not Melior, then there's Greil's Mercenaries. If you returned to them, I'm sure they'd be glad to have you."

He paused, considering. Greil's Mercenaries were a good group. Good folks. But still, he could feel that same claustrophobic feeling rising inside him — too many people. "No, not that either."

Ike nodded placidly. The two of them remained silent for a while, just sitting, looking at each other or around the room, occasionally sipping from their respective drinks. Zihark needed that time to think — and maybe Ike sensed this, and was giving Zihark the time and silence _to_ think. He seemed to be a good listener, that way.

At last, Zihark managed to speak again: "She never minded my work as a mercenary." Zihark knew Ike would know who _she_ was: Raelsha. "She saw it as necessary work, purposeful — even good work, the way I went about it. I always chose my clients carefully. But killing out of spite, out of rage — she wouldn't stand for that. Said if you're fighting monsters, you can't _become_ like a monster yourself. She told me to never let anger and hate guide my blade..." A troubled frown slipped over his face. "And they never had, until that night with Woodward."

Zihark gazed idly at his half-empty class, watching how the liquid flowed as he tilted it — and carefully avoided Ike's eyes. "She'd already been dead for a week, before I... before I killed him. I'd spent that week hoping the town would step in to deal with Woodward, but they never did, and I overheard him when he was leaving the tavern one night. He was _gloating_ about it to some of his fellows, gloating about killing her... And I guess I went a bit mad. Stalked him into a dark alley and..." Zihark swallowed. "Well, you know the rest. He wasn't a good man. But killing him that way was... she wouldn't have liked that."

Dimly, Zihark was rather surprised he was saying all this — normally he wasn't nearly so verbose, especially regarding his own past. And normally, he didn't linger in his house in a mourning-induced haze, or cold-bloodedly murder men. Maybe Raelsha's passing was still making him behave strangely — or perhaps it was simply that Ike's relentlessness had finally gotten him talking.

Ike watched Zihark for a moment, silently. When Zihark said nothing else, Ike shrugged. "So you made a mistake. You just won't make that mistake again."

Zihark sighed. _Many mistakes, Ike,_ he thought — but he didn't want to explain further. He took another drink from his glass, a long drink.

"I'll travel, I think," Zihark announced slowly. He was deciding at the same time as he spoke the words. "Maybe pick up some jobs like the one I had in Toha." That didn't sound quite right, either. But it wasn't claustrophobic, and it was good work. "For now, though," Zihark continued, finishing off his glass, "I'm tired. I think I'll rest for a while, before I do anything." He angled his head slightly toward the door and gave a shallow nod — a hint for Ike to leave. Even this brief conversation, even this single glass of wine, felt tiring to him, so soon after being released.

Ike didn't move, though. "Are you sure? Is there anything else you need help with?"

"No, I should be fine."

Ike rose, slowly — but he still looked vaguely dissatisfied. He fidgeted in front of the door for a moment before asking: "You'll be alright, then?"

Ike's gaze was rather intense — there was some deep-rooted worry there, and his tone was almost pleading. Zihark quirked his head, wondering what was darkening Ike's face so — but then, he realized what Ike must be thinking, and almost laughed aloud. "I'm not interested in killing myself anytime soon, Ike, I assure you."

Ike scratched his shoulder, looking rather abashed. "It's just — you know. Before, you seemed sort of, uh —"

"It would be ungrateful of me," Zihark cut in firmly, "to throw away my own life right after you saved it. So don't worry."

"Alright." The relief on Ike's face was evident. He offered a smile, as open and genuine as Zihark remembered from when he'd first met the young general, three years ago. "Good night, Zihark."

* * *

><p>Since the restoration, relations between laguz and beorc in Crimea had certainly <em>improved<em> — Raelsha hadn't needed to wear a hood in public to disguise herself, and she hadn't needed to fear attacks from villagers in broad daylight. But there were still vague rumors of illegal laguz-killings throughout the countryside, there were still whispered insults and pointed stares when Raelsha went into town, and there was still a sizable portion of the beorc populace who wouldn't exchange more than two words with a laguz. Raelsha, bless her, had been unflappable through it all — she was convinced the townsfolk would come around eventually, and she never behaved with anything but cheer and charm around them. "After all," she'd joked to Zihark more than once, "I made _you_ change your view on things, Mister Daein, didn't I?" And there were small signs that she was right — she'd managed to forge a few shaky friendships with the people of Morholt, and she'd won over half the tavern's staff (thanks at least partially to her generous tips).

So, when Zihark came to town and announced that Woodward had murdered her, he was astounded how cold of a reception he received. He hadn't expected an outpouring of sympathy and outrage, exactly, but he'd expected at least the bare minimum of courtesy: perhaps a few kind words and a halfway proper investigation.

Instead, the officials had leered at him, demanding to know _did you really see him_ and _do you have some personal problem with Woodward, sir_ and _are you certain this is worth our time_? Most of the townsfolk acted aloof towards Zihark the next day, hurrying away when he approached or deliberately looking away — and a few of the brasher young men had the nerve to jeer at Zihark as they saw him. _Heard about your luck, laguz-lover!_ If he hadn't felt so numb at that point, the day right after Raelsha's death, he might've snapped sooner.

The closest thing to kindness he received was from one of the tavern's barmaids, a lady whom Raelsha had considered a friend — though "kindness" was perhaps an overstatement. "Oh, Zihark," the barmaid had sighed, placing a sympathetic hand over his own as he sat listlessly staring into a glass of ale, "I suppose bad things just happen, sometimes. But everything happens for a reason."

As if there were any good _reason_ behind Raelsha's death.

So Zihark didn't even bother trying to have Raelsha buried in the town's cemetery. Why should she lay among that rabble of hypocrites and prejudiced fools? He had found a grassy knoll, on the outskirts of town — lovely, green, and most importantly _isolated_, a place where no one in Morholt ever strayed. He'd taken a shovel and started digging.

Her funeral — if you could call it that — was also a one-man affair, with Zihark serving as both the conductor of ceremonies and the sole attendant. He felt strange, standing over her corpse — he was no priest, no holy man. How had this become his duty? He would've liked for there to be someone else there, some kind of ceremony or structure, _anything_, so that he didn't feel he was doing this awful, final thing on his own — but there was no helping it.

Zihark did what he could. He took a book of Gallian poetry of hers, her favorite, and read some verses. He liked the sound of the poetry on his tongue; the words felt crisp and wild, just as Raelsha had been. Then, he'd read a few meandering passages from a more philosophical tome he'd skimmed in the past, _Meditations on Life, Death & the Day_ by an ancient Begnion scholar. He didn't know why he had read that, in hindsight. He didn't have a particular taste for the text, and Raelsha had never read it at all. It just seemed like the weighty, brooding sort of thing that might be read at a funeral. Zihark only managed to get partway through the text, anyway: there came a point when words failed him, when his throat felt so tight he couldn't manage the sounds, and his vision was so misty he couldn't read the words, and he let the book slip from his fingers, let the tears come, and wept openly by that grave.

When he'd shed all the tears he could manage, he had to bury her on his own. He could still remember every shovelful. How weighty the dirt had felt, how deep the grave had seemed. It took him hours, hours longer than it should have — by the time he was done, the sun had long since set, and he felt wearier than he'd ever felt on any battlefield.

He stood at that grave now — a few hours after Ike had left him, a few hours after he'd been freed.

"Raelle," he whispered, staring at the grave. "I need you." His voice sounded so husky and broken, but he didn't care. It was only her listening, and he never could hide anything from her. "I haven't been able to make it up to you — what they did to you, what I did to you. And I'm not sure I ever will."

He sighed, falling silent for a moment. The wind hissed softly over the ridgeside.

"Maybe the general's right," he murmured. "Maybe it's better that I live. Just that... I'm not sure for what, or how." He was speaking slowly, meditatively, more as if he were thinking aloud then talking to anyone in particular. "I think I thought myself a martyr, almost. Dying nobly in your name... Maybe you wouldn't have liked that." A grim laugh. "I know you wouldn't have liked that."

Zihark stole a quick glance either way. No one else was around. Of course. Had anyone else noticed the grave was here? Would anyone else even care?

He _had_ sent word to her family in Gallia, but no response had come yet. It could simply be due to distance — it was a long way from Morholt to Raelsha's hometown, and the road went through treacherous territory. Or perhaps her family simply had simply chosen to ignore the message — perhaps they had resolved to disavow her existence completely. It wasn't unlikely. Zihark still remembered, too clearly, how they'd reacted when she had tried to introduce Zihark to them.

He cringed at the memory...

* * *

><p>Zihark knew Raelsha was furious. He just hoped she wasn't furious at <em>him<em>.

They'd been planning to stay in Gallia for at least a few nights, but as soon as they left her parents' house, Raelsha announced that they were returning to Begnion. Immediately. It was late, and dark out, so it didn't make any sense to begin such a journey right that second — but the glare she gave him brooked absolutely no room for discussion. "Alright," he'd said to her retreating figure — she was already storming towards the road.

And she was still storming along that road, an hour later. Zihark was getting a bit winded keeping up with her. They hadn't exchanged a single word this whole time — Raelsha wasn't interested in talking, and Zihark was afraid of provoking her temper further. So, instead of chatting, he kept replaying every detail of their brief visit in his mind, trying to figure out how he had fumbled their meeting. He _must_ have faltered, at some point — but how? He'd been so careful to observe all the proper laguz manners and customs, he'd endured all their veiled insults with feigned ignorance, he'd striven to be as polite and respectful as possible —

"They were really horrible to you," Raelsha spat at last.

"Oh." Zihark felt a surge of relief: _At least she's not angry at me_. "They were fine, Raelsha," he reassured her. "This can't be easy for them."

"But it wasn't like I _sprung_ this on them," she protested. "I _told_ them about you. It seemed like they'd be..." She trailed off, pausing a moment to scowl. "Well, okay, they didn't seem _fine_ with it, exactly, but I thought they'd at least give you a _chance_. I should've _punched_ that idiot brother of mine. I wanted to. I wish I had."

"Your brother is still just a kid, Raelsha. He was just being obnoxious. Nothing I can't handle."

"_No_, Zihark. _Obnoxious_ is when he kept making rude noises while you were talking. _Obnoxious_ is when he wouldn't call you by your name and kept calling you 'human' and 'that hairless thing.' But when your brother _then_ says to everyone, in the middle of dinner, that if you're _fucking his sister_ then he's going to murder you in your sleep, that's beyond just _obnoxious_. That's beyond _rude_. It's, it's..." Raelsha cut off her sentence with a wordless snarl.

"I think he put it a bit more, er, colorfully than that," Zihark answered, a thin smile crossing his face, trying to lighten the mood. "Something about tearing me limb from limb and strewing my innards across the forest to be fed on by buzzards? _Quite _the imaginative boy."

Raelsha didn't even begin to crack a grin. Zihark watched her carefully, while still struggling to keep up with her — her pace hadn't slackened a bit. She was furious about her brother, certainly, and her family's rather icy treatment of him, but still... She'd been so determined that Zihark should meet her family. She'd been resolved to battle through their prejudices; she'd said over and over that she loved her family and she loved him, so there should be no _reason_ they wouldn't love each other.

So why were they returning to Begnion already? It was unlike her to give up so quickly.

"Raelle," he asked, very quietly, "is there something else bothering you?"

Her pace staggered at the question. Zihark slowed down, keeping in step with her, able to get a good look at her face for the first time — it was twisted, as if in pain. "Father," she choked at last, and tears, sudden and unbidden, sprung into her eyes. "He talked to me, after dinner, when we were alone. He said..."

She took a halting step toward Zihark. He met her, wrapping his arms around her tightly as she leaned into him, pressing against his chest. She kept talking, and though her words were muffled, Zihark heard them all clearly: "He s-s-said I shouldn't come back to Gallia unless I've, unless I..." She gasped for air between sobs. Zihark felt a lump in his throat, himself; he couldn't stand to watch her cry. "He doesn't want me to s-s-see me again unless I stop seeing you."

_Oh._

Zihark couldn't even think of a proper response. He felt a sudden chill — starting in the pit of his chest and spreading, until even his fingers felt numb holding her. His head felt numb, too — numb, foggy, making it difficult to think.

He'd always been afraid of this. In his darker moments, he'd seen it as an inevitability: in what world, really, did he think a laguz and a beorc could live together, share a life together? He'd always known she was close to her family. He'd always known she wanted to go back to Gallia someday — and he suspected she'd one day leave him behind. After all, what did he have to offer her? A life of persecution, of hiding, of nasty stares and outright assaults from everyone around them. In Gallia, she had family and friends. And she could find love there, too, surely — with another laguz, the kind of love that could be praised and honored and sustained without any of the troubles that their love consisted of.

"I can't choose between them and you," she choked fiercely, pressing harder against Zihark. "They can't _make_ me choose."

_So it's not over yet_, Zihark thought, hugging her more tightly. _Not yet, but..._

"Of course. And they won't," Zihark murmured, stroking her hair gently. "Something will work out. They'll come around." But his words sounded hollow to his ears. Did they sound that way to Raelsha, too?

* * *

><p>He'd been right, that time. In the end, Raelsha had gone back to Gallia. Alone.<p>

Zihark sighed. It would've been better if she'd stayed there, he thought bitterly. He'd been resolved to never seeing her again, content just to know that she still lived, somewhere.

But _she_ had come after _him_. A month after Crimea had been liberated, she'd found him in the capitol. Told him she would risk losing her family if it meant being with him again. He didn't want to say no to her, then — she'd chased him all the way to Melior, based on hearsay and hopes, and she _wanted_ him, and he wanted her, more than anything...

But he _could've_ said no to her. _Should've_ said no.

_I can't make it up to you... what I did to you._

By the hour he finally left her grave, the night was old and dark around him.

* * *

><p>The moon was low, and fading rapidly into the gray sky. Though dawn had not broken yet, there was a dim luminescence on the far horizon, seeping through the trees and alighting on the fog and mist that lingered heavily on the forest's winding roads. Zihark was already on those roads, despite the odd hour — though he had felt exhausted after visiting Raelsha's grave, he was only able to sleep for a short time. Perhaps it was unsurprising — after all, in prison, there hadn't been much to do <em>besides<em> sleep, so Zihark had gotten more than enough rest during the past week or so.

He left a note at his house, in case Ike came knocking around the next day, telling Ike he'd left to make his way somewhere else. He hadn't told Ike _where_ he was going, because even Zihark wasn't sure of that yet — there were two major paths out of town, and Zihark had picked one almost at random, a path that led through southern Crimea and eventually into Begnion. He'd packed lightly before leaving, not sparing a single thought for the house or its remaining contents. Let either Morholt or the looters sort that out — he didn't really care.

The air was brisk, and the wind ached through the trees with a low, somber timbre — Zihark relished that chill in the air, the feel of the wind. It felt good, traveling again, better than he'd expected. Despite all the pain he'd endured these past few weeks, there was something irrepressibly appealing about having all of one's possessions right on one's person and going exactly where one pleased. Complete freedom, and complete detachment from anyone else. He was at least a few miles outside Morholt, by now, far from those gossiping crowds and accusatory stares. Almost far enough to forget them — or at least, far enough to keep from dwelling on them.

A low crackle in the underbrush drew his attention — a sound too heavy to have been caused by some forest creature. Zihark paused, halting where he stood, but he didn't need wait long. A few seconds later, a figure emerged from the woods hemming the road.

A laguz. Blue-furred, with a heavy frame, built like a wrestler — a tiger laguz, Zihark guessed, and a young one at that. He looked no more than fifteen, based on Zihark's best guess — though, of course, aging _was_ a bit different with the laguz...

The laguz was glowering at Zihark. Zihark offered an appeasing smile. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

The laguz smirked "No, you do not know me — but I have been told about you, Zihark."

There was something in the laguz's tone that send a creeping chill down Zihark's spine.

"I am Mund," the laguz announced, planting himself squarely in the center of the road, standing as tall as possible, "and though you do not know me, I am a friend to someone who you _do_ know."

"Who's your friend, then?" Despite that creeping chill, Zihark's posture remained relaxed, and his tone was almost cheerful.

There was another low crackle in the underbrush to the side of the road. Zihark quirked his head slightly towards the sound, but made sure to keep the strange laguz, Mund, within the edge of his vision. Emerging from the forest was another figure: lankier, taller, with orange-furred ears and a rather pointed, angular face. The figure stepped into a wash of moonlight, illuminating his face — and Zihark recognized him immediately.

He could feel his anxiousness threatening to morph into panic, and he struggled to control himself, even as the back of his mind was screaming _fight or flight_! Even after years without seeing him, even after only seeing him _once_, Zihark knew this laguz: the ragged, unkempt hair that never seemed to lay flat, the bright green eyes, the irrepressible swagger in his stride... The laguz grown since Zihark had seen him last, of course. This laguz had been a child before, and now he was somewhere between a man and a boy. His face looked more mature now, sharper, making the familial resemblance more obvious than ever:

_I should've punched that idiot brother of mine._

"Radeki," Zihark whispered. "You've grown."

Radeki didn't respond, but gave an almost imperceptible nod toward his companion. Mund shifted — and now Zihark was facing both a human-form cat laguz and a hulking blue tiger, purring dangerously, watching Zihark fixedly with a hunter's gaze.

There was a long silence, and both of them simply stared at each other. There was barely-restrained fury evident in Radeki's entire being — his mouth was a thin, angry line, and his muscles all seemed tight and coiled. Radeki spoke first, his eyes no more than narrow, angry slits: "I would've preferred to attack you right in the middle of Morholt — in front of all your human allies — rather than slinking around in the shadows like this."

"I would prefer there be no attacking at all, Radeki —" Zihark began quietly, but the cat cut him off:

"I'm sure my sister would prefer not to be dead!"

The words were spoken like an accusation — which they were, and the accusation _stung_. Zihark opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again quickly. What _could_ he say? He met Radeki's gaze — Radeki's eyes were all anger, all defiance, all vengeance. Zihark, by comparison, just looked lost and wounded. The cat could see it, Zihark knew, and would see it as weakness — but Zihark didn't bother disguising his feelings. He probably _couldn't_ have, even if he'd wanted to.

Radeki continued: "So I'm _here_ instead of in Morholt, and my sister's _dead_ instead of alive, and you, _you_, Zihark —" a savage grin crossed his face "— you will not be avoiding this fight."

Madul took a step closer with a fanged grin. He was purring lowly in anticipation. Zihark, however, didn't so much as twitch toward his blade.

"Can your human ears not hear me? Get your sword out," Radeki barked.

Zihark's eyes darted from Radeki, to Mund, then to the forest around them. There was no real avenue for escape — even if there had been just _one_ opponent, he would've had a hard time outpacing laguz paws on his own feet. But with two of them there, his chances of getting away shrank to zero.

And he couldn't fight, wouldn't fight. Not against a laguz — and least of all against Raelsha's kin.

Sighing, Zihark closed his eyes and tried to explain: "I know I wronged you, Radeki, but I've no wish to fight you, and killing me won't —"

"Damned well you wronged me," Radeki snapped, cutting him off. "Don't try and talk your way out of this, worm. We are fighting, here, now. Draw your sword."

Zihark didn't move.

Beside Radeki, Mund crouched lower, giving a low, warning growl. "Is this some beorc insult?" Radeki hissed. "Do you mean to match my claws with your feeble little hands? Do you think failing to draw your weapon will grant you some kind of mercy?"

Zihark felt, suddenly, very aware of the sound of his own breathing. Had it always been so loud? _I'm sorry, Ike,_ he thought sadly. He _had_ wanted to live — wanted to honor Ike's generosity, wanted to find some small way to redeem himself over the events in Morholt, wanted to do good for the laguz, but there was no helping that now. Zihark knew his next words were very likely his last, and he spoke them slowly and deliberately: "I won't fight you. Either of you."

Mund snarled. Radeki's face reddened, contorting with rage. "Fine, Zihark!" the cat shouted, taking a deliberate step forward. "You'll just die faster, then!"

Without another word, Radeki shifted, and in unison, the pair of beast laguz pounced.


End file.
